Layton Brothers: Mystery Room
by Melodious-Nocturne3
Summary: Both a novelization and a walkthrough of the game Layton Brothers: Mystery Room. Seen in Lucy Baker's point of view.
1. 000 - Freshly Baker

**A/N:**

**Disclaimer - Layton Brothers: Mystery Room is not mine. Neither the content nor the logo or anything else belongs to me. The only thing that does from henceforth is my interpretation of the events in this writing. This fanfiction is not gaining me any money either.  
**

**Note**** - This game takes place in Scotland Yard, London. The main characters speak in accents different from the American one, so the phrasing and usage of words will be slightly different than the US way of speaking. You have been notified. (Extra: Unfortunately, since I speak as an American does, it will only be the speech that is typed this way.)**

* * *

File No. 000: Freshly Baker

* * *

_Four years on, and still it smarts._

_The heavens opened up that night, and the rain sheeted down._

_That fateful night, when I'd lost my way._

_When... he killed me._

Lightning flashed as thunder rumbled in the distance.

* * *

**"Detective Constable Baker! Are you paying attention?"**

Deputy Commissioner Chan stood there sternly in front of me, scowling in disapproval. His arms were crossed, the police badge pinned on the left side of his brown and teal sweater jacket glinting in the bright sunlight. It shone through the many windows in the hallway we stood in as I blinked in surprise, turning with a jolt towards my senior in position (_and age. Ha ha_).

"Ee, sorry, Deputy Commissioner," I apologized, a sheepish expression on my face. "I were miles away. It's such a nice day out there, I couldn't help gazing out the window." I gestured towards the said window with a bright smile on my face.

I held out the paper that had officially sealed the deal and made me one of the new detectives of New Scotland Yard. "All this sunshine must be a good omen on my first day, don't you think?"

The Asian man in front of me snapped, saying, "It makes no difference to anything! Maybe if you'd seen a lucky red bat..." I had to restrain myself from flinching away, but not from the force of the Deputy Commissioner's exclamation. His shout had caused his spit to fly everywhere.

"Anyway, look," he continued harshly, "don't forget you've been assigned to what can only be described as a back-office. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it's closed down tomorrow, quite frankly."

I crossed my arms and frowned thoughtfully at the man's comment. "Aye, but it's where all t'other cases that no one else can solve get sent, isn't it?" I pointed out slowly, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. I pointed at the Deputy Commissioner in emphasis of my next statement. "Where the real stinkers get cracked!"

He huffed in irritation, unable to snap out a comeback.

Commissioner Barton walked up to us with a slight smile, having heard our bickering. "Quite so, Detective Constable Baker. Don't let Deputy Commissioner Chan put you off. I'm sure you'll do very well there," he assured me. Though I didn't really need the reassuring, if I say so myself.

"Thank you, Commissioner!" I said politely in reply.

"Hmph," Chan said. "You'll have to work very hard to prove yourself, Baker, considering your performance up to now."

I was immediately hit with a sense of anxiety, reminded of what the Deputy Commissioner was talking about. "Now I know I did particularly badly in my exams," I said quickly, clenching my fists in nervousness. "But that's just because I'd had a bad Balti the night before."

The Commissioner chuckled slightly as I eagerly tried to explain my terrible exam results. "Don't worry, DC Baker. I've put you with a very special Inspector. He won't let you put a foot wrong." The white-haired senior paused thoughtfully, then added, "And there's not an officer in the force who can match his powers of deduction."

"Ee, really?" I asked curiously, surprised by this turn of events. "I'll be working with someone that good, eh?" I glanced significantly at Deputy Commissioner Chan, who all but ignored me, only crossing his arms.

"Oh yes," Commissioner Barton said with a smile. "He's exceptional. In fact, I doubt there's a mystery he couldn't solve if he put his mind to it."

"That's grand," I said, now eager to get going and meet what must be an extraordinary man. "I'll get cracking then and introduce myself straight away." I quickly left, scanning the doors and signs I passed as I went, looking for the right office. Eventually, I found the right room and entered, hearing the door squeak as it swung open.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Commissioner?" Chan asked dubiously, turning to look at his boss with a raised eyebrow. "He's so unstable. You could be putting her in danger."

Commissioner Barton looked downwards at the floor, a solemn look on his face. "We just have to have faith. For all his faults, I still believe in Alfendi Layton," he said, though he sounded a bit like he was trying to convince himself.


	2. 001 - The Hand Sandwich

**Disclaimer - Layton Brothers: Mystery Room is not mine.**

**Note - I will also change a few things every once in a while, since the game itself sometimes doesn't fit with reality. So I will be trying to fill in these holes to the best of my ability.**

* * *

File No. 001: The Hand Sandwich

* * *

I stepped in cautiously, glancing around the office of my new workplace and taking all of it in. It was cluttered to say the least, stacks of books and papers scattered everywhere as well as many boxes. A desk standing in the corner had all of its free space taken, both a telephone and a fax machine perched rather precariously on the flat surface. There was also a small pile of blank white paper, presumably for the fax, and a mug half-filled with tea rested on top of an open newspaper. The lamp beside the clutter was turned off, since the window nearby had its blinds pulled up, letting the sunlight in. A blue bulletin board hanging on the wall behind it had dozens of articles and the like stapled to it.

But no one was around.

"Ee, I'm dead sorry I'm late!" I called out, closing the door behind me. It shut with a quiet thump._ Is this t'right office?_ "I'm the new - oh, where is everyone?" I blurted out, crossing my arms and frowning in confusion. After a moment of silence, I thought,_ Well, seeing as I've got the place to myself, I might as well have a practice._

I cleared my throat loudly before saying, "The true culprit of this crime..." I pointed dramatically towards an imaginary criminal. "... is YOU!"

Just then, a tall and lanky man with purplish-red hair and golden yellow eyes stepped out from somewhere in the back of the room, presumably from an adjoining closet or something of the like. He was wearing a long white coat with newspapers stuffed in the pockets over a striped blue and red turtleneck with black jeans and sneakers.

Unfortunately enough, he had entered right into the path of my pointing, and he looked at me with a slightly amused but mostly exasperated expression, his hand placed on the side of his head like he had a headache. "An unlikely deduction, I must say," he replied.

Startled, I held my hands up. "Oh! No," I said hurriedly. "I'm -"

"Who are you?" the man interrupted questioningly, still looking exasperated.

"Erm, Lucy," I explained nervously, afraid that I might've given him the wrong impression. "I mean, Baker. Lucy Baker. I've just been assigned to this office."

"Ah, yes," he mused, now with a thoughtful gaze as he scrutinized me with those yellow eyes of his. I had to restrain a shudder. The unusual color was just so off-putting to me. "I do seem to recall reading some memo about a new assistant the other day."

I let out a silent breath of relief, lowering my hands. "That's me," I replied. "Pleased to meet you, er..." I looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "I don't think I caught your name."

"Oh yes," the man said, now smiling at me. "I haven't introduced myself yet, have I? I'm Alfendi Layton," he explained, placing a hand on his chest. "Inspector Layton around here. But please don't feel obliged to stick to formalities when you address me."

I smiled back at him, encouraged by his now friendly manner. He was much better than Deputy Commissioner Chan. "Oh, well then," I said. "Seeing as you'll be showing me the ropes and whatnot, how about I call you 'Prof'?" I asked.

The man now dubbed 'Prof' frowned disapprovingly, his hand raised up to his chin. "I'm not entirely sure that's appropriate," he commented. "Certainly my father, who was an actual university professor, would not approve."

"Well, you did say there's no need to stick to formalities, didn't you?" I pointed out with a grin. "'Prof' it is, then!"

The Prof let out an exasperated breath, slowly shaking his head. "Hm. Just bear in mind that I haven't yet decided if this will be a permanent position for you or not," he said.

I blinked in surprise, leaning forward a bit with wide eyes. "Eh?" I exclaimed. _I might not work here in t'end?_

"A rather interesting new case has just cropped up as it happens," the Prof said to me, smiling slightly. "The perfect opportunity to prove yourself."

* * *

_And that's how I got started working with the Prof._

_This first case were at a hotel in a popular seaside town._

_A young lass were killed ont' balcony of her room._

_There were three suspects._

_I thought the lot of them were dead sus to be honest, but the Prof somehow seemed to know who'd done it from the start._

_And that the key to solving the whole thing were in that sandwich..._

* * *

"Let me talk you through the case," the Prof said, holding a couple of yellow folders edged with aluminum in his hand and spreading them out onto his already cluttered desk. I stood beside him, leaning down a bit for a better view. I looked at the Prof expectantly.

He opened one folder and slid out a picture depicting a large six-story building colored white, blue, and green.

"It happened just a few days ago, at a hotel in a very busy holiday resort," the Prof explained, handing the picture over to me. I peered closely at it, trying to take in every minute detail.

There was a huge stone statue of an armored man riding a horse and holding a bright red flag in front of the hotel, and there was a fancy fountain with water cascading down like a waterfall too. The building itself had dozens of windows and balconies visible even in the sole picture the Prof was showing me, and I guessed that it had at least a hundred rooms, if not more. There was also a couple of penthouses on top of the roof.

"Ee, that's a swanky-looking place!" I exclaimed, holding the picture out in front of me for a moment before handing it back to the Prof.

He carefully set it back down in the folder he had taken it from. "Yes," the Prof confirmed, looking back at me. "It's a five-star hotel with a wonderful sea view. Unfortunately," he continued, "it was also the scene of a murder."

I frowned and crossed my arms, somber as I truly realized just what kind of case I was about to work on. "Oh. A murder, eh?"

The Prof nodded in reply, taking out a thin notepad. Handing it over to me, he said, "The victim was a woman by the name of Sandy Aldwich."

Taking the notepad, I quickly skimmed over the information written down on the small slip of paper as I listened to the Prof.

**Sandy Aldwich (Victim)**

**Age: 23 - Female**

**Murdered while on holiday with lover**

**A well-off and well-to-do young woman whose immaculate appearance belied a chequered history with the opposite sex.**

"Though she has stayed at the hotel alone on several prior occasions," the Prof explained, "this time she was with her lover. On the afternoon in question, Ms. Aldwich contacted room service to order a sandwich. It was the bellboy, a Mr. Zach Carrière, who brought the order to the room. He's the first suspect. At Ms. Aldwich's request, he took it out to her on the terrace."

"After Carrière left the room," he continued, "a man claiming to be Ms. Aldwich's lover turned up."

The way the Prof phrased the last sentence caught my attention. "Claiming to be?" I asked, frowning in thought.

"Yes," he replied, also beginning to frown. He put his hand up to his chin as if thinking. "This is where it gets complicated. You see," the Prof explained, "the man who turned up at the hotel that day stubbornly refuses to identify himself."

"Sounds pretty guilty if you ask me," I commented, already running through my head the possible ways this unnamed man could have killed Sandy Aldwich.

The Prof held up a finger in a movement that seemed to say 'but', as if he knew what I was thinking. "He let himself in using a key card that she'd sent him," he pointed out.

"So he never saw or spoke to the victim in the room then?" I asked, curious.

"If you believe his statement, yes, that's what he's saying."

I tapped my finger against my cheek, still frowning slightly. "I don't know..." I said hesitantly. "Withholding his identity? That's dead fishy."

"Yes," the Prof replied simply in agreement. "Anyway, let me tell you the rest."

"This supposed lover of Aldwich's put the 'Please make up my room' sign on the door handle as he left. That brings us to the next suspect: a hotel cleaner who saw the sign and went in to clean the room. Her name is Vera Wipovsky."

"She started to clean the room as normal," the Prof continued. "At some point, she drew the closed curtains back, and noticed that Aldwich was outside on the terrace. Seeing her slumped over the table, it seems Wipovsky thought that Aldwich had just fallen asleep. But sadly, that wasn't the case. She'd been strangled to death. And she lay there with one hand inside the sandwich she'd ordered."

That startled me. "Eh?" I asked in surprise. "A hand sandwich?"

The Prof nodded in reply. "Yes. Aldwich's hand was sandwiched between the two slices of bread, along with the other fillings."

Brow creased in thought, I crossed my arms. "Whatever could that mean?"

"If you manage to work that out," the Prof said with a smile, "you'll pass my test."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I'll do my best."

He nodded at me in satisfaction. "Good. Right, well, let's see what we have on the suspects so far." The Prof gestured to the small notepad lying forgotten in my hand, and I smiled back at him sheepishly.

"Okay," I replied, flipping over the page describing the victim and glancing back at him. "I'm all ears," I added, seeing that he was about to speak.

The Prof nodded at me and continued. "As I've said, we're looking at three possible suspects. Firstly, the mystery man who claims to have been the victim's lover."

I looked back down at the notepad in my hand and skimmed through the pages until I found the corresponding page.

**The victim's lover (Name unknown; Suspect)**

**Age: ? - Male**

**No ID, but claims to be victim's lover**

**A man present at the hotel on the day of the murder. He says he is Aldwich's lover, but that remains to be proved. Rude, but well-presented.  
**

"He does admit to having been in the room at around the time of the murder," the Prof said as he watched me read the scribbled notes. "However, he claims he never saw or spoke to her."

I glanced up at him with a confused frown. "So do you think she were somewhere else then?" I asked.

"Either that, or she was on the terrace and he simply didn't notice," the Prof added. "It seems the curtains were closed when he came into the room. I've already confirmed that it's impossible to see anything on the terrace with the curtains shut."

"Still," I said, "you'd think he'd figure it out. I mean, you'd know, wouldn't you? If you were lovers." I clenched my fists, though I tried not to crush the notepad. "And he won't tell us his name!" I exclaimed. "Come on, do we really have to look any further? It were him!"

The Prof hid part of his face behind his hand in exasperation for a moment before looking back at me. I just smiled back at him sheepishly, a bit embarrassed by my outburst. "Let's just move on to the next suspect, shall we? Before making any rash judgements," he suggested.

"So, the bellboy, Zach Carrière," the Prof continued. "He's the one who brought the sandwich the victim had ordered to her room."

I flipped rapidly through the notepad until the name Carrière caught my eye.

**Zach Carrière (Suspect)**

**Age: 19 - Male**

**A bellboy at the hotel**

**An efficient and diligent worker, well trusted by his employers. In truth, he is a clean-freak and a narcissist who spends hours in front of a mirror.**

"And this Carrière fellow," I asked carefully, "he saw Aldwich when she were still alive, didn't he?"

"If you believe his statement, then yes, he's the last person to have seen the victim alive," the Prof replied.

I frowned thoughtfully. "I'd say that's worth double-checking then, eh?"

The Prof merely nodded in agreement before moving on. "Finally, the last suspect is the cleaner, Vera Wipovsky."

**Vera Wipovsky (Suspect)**

**Age: 51 - Female**

**A cleaner at the hotel**

**Hotel cleaner and mother of ten, considered by all who know her to be an absolute rock. However, she worries that her husband may have an affair while working away.**

"She saw the service request sign on the door and entered the room to clean it," the Prof continued, "then discovered the body."

"Hmm..." I speculated. "The one who discovered the body, eh? Fishy."

"And that's everyone who's under suspicion," the Prof said, seeming to have not heard me. He closed the first folder and picked it up, along with another one, and handed it to me. "This contains all of the case notes and statements we collected at the scene," he said. "Make sure to keep track of it and of any changes. Though I recommend only using it when necessary."

I nodded, a determined expression on my face, and slipped the notepad back where it had been before being taken out.

"The most intriguing thing about this case, of course," the Prof mused, "is why Aldwich's hand ended up in her sandwich."

"Aye, that sarnie's a right brain-teaser and no mistake," I replied, frowning.

The Prof continued. "Obviously it couldn't have just happened by chance. It clearly has some meaning."

I nodded slowly, mulling it over for a bit before smiling at him. "Okay, I follow you. I'll be sure to have a good look into the sandwich."

The Prof smiled back, and I could tell that he was impressed with how I was managing so far. "So, now you have all the information, who do you think the culprit is?"

"Eh?" I exclaimed, startled that he would ask me my suspicions already. "Just off the top of my head, you mean? Hadn't I better take a look at the crime scene and all that stuff first?" I asked, a bit desperately. _What if I'm wrong? That would be dead embarrassing!_

"The crime scene's available for your inspection just over there," the Prof said with a smile.

I tilted my head in confusion, frowning. "Over there? How do you mean?"

"Have a look."

* * *

The Prof guided me over to a door half-hidden in a corner of the office. I had missed it earlier, mostly because it was out of view from the entrance door. _Perhaps this is where the Prof had come out from earlier._ He opened the door for me and, taking a step inside, I gasped at the sight.

It was a terrace, complete with table, striped yellow and white umbrella, deckchair, and the dead body of Sandy Aldwich. Her hand was even in a sandwich. Quickly turning around to face the direction I had entered from, I saw the Prof come in through a door and close it behind him, which melded into the black background. It would have been invisible, if not for a very conspicuous doorknob sticking out from the wall.

"By 'eck, Prof!" I exclaimed, gesturing at the whole of the room we had just gone into. "What's this?"

"This is the reconstruction device," he replied calmly, hands in his newspaper-filled pockets. "It faithfully reproduces any crime scene, right down to the minutiae. It completely eliminates any need to leave the office and travel to the real scene of the crime."

I blinked, taking in what the Prof had explained for a moment before recovering from my initial shock. "I had no idea modern policing were so advanced," I said, impressed.

The Prof's mouth quirked up slightly in a smile. "Well actually," he replied, "you won't find a machine like this anywhere else. It's one of a kind."

"So," he said, looking at me expectantly, "shall we get down to the actual investigative business now?" He glanced at a watch on his wrist. "I'm expecting a visitor soon, so I'll limit you to five minutes, I think."

"What? Just five minutes?" I blurted out.

"Don't worry, Lucy," the Prof assured me. "I'm well aware it's hard for you to determine the culprit based on your current knowledge of the case. Why don't you tell me what your gut instinct is, first of all? Who do you feel like the criminal is? Listening to your hunches is a vital part of the process," he added. "After that, we'll start making some deductions."

I nodded, a slightly relieved smile on my face. "Understood, Prof."

The Prof watched me for a few minutes as I studied the terrace, peering in close to a lot of the evidence while being careful not to bother them too much and shuffling through the case notes he had given me, muttering under my breath. There were plenty of interesting things to pay attention to, as well as stuff I didn't quite get. Some of the evidence also seemed a bit unimportant to me, like the table and the potted plant. So I didn't really look too closely at those. I did make sure to inspect the sandwich carefully, though, remembering the Prof's thinly veiled suggestion.

Lucky for me, I had gotten finished before the five minutes were over, so I let the Prof know and we exited the reconstruction device and returned to the office.

"So," the Prof said to me, "let's hear who you think is the most suspicious."

I frowned, thinking it over as I skimmed through the case notes once more. "The victim's lover," I eventually replied.

"I see. And what's your reasoning?"

"Well, the fellow won't even tell us his name, for goodness' sake," I pointed out. "That's dead sus. I mean, what else isn't he telling us, eh?"

The Prof smiled slightly, though I couldn't tell whether that was from me being right or amusement from me being wrong. "Yes, clearly there's more to this man, whoever he is, than meets the eye. But that alone isn't enough to prove anything."

"No, I suppose not," I replied with a sigh. "Do you have a better idea then, Prof? Do you think you know who did it?"

"Oh yes, certainly. According to my deductions, I'm..." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "...97.6% sure of the killer's identity."

That caught me off-guard. "You only work to one decimal place? I'm shocked," I said, a bit sarcastically.

"The fact is, this is an unusually simple case," the Prof replied. "I've been able to ascertain almost exactly what happened on the day of the incident." He frowned, though, despite his confidence. "Nevertheless, there's a 2.4% window of uncertainty which cannot be ignored."

"Because of the helpful fellow that won't tell us his name, is it?" I asked.

"Naturally, that's one area of uncertainty, yes."

I smiled in triumph. "So it were the nameless wonder after all, eh? There've been alarm bells ringing in my head ever since you said he were claiming to be the lass's boyfriend. Aye, this were a crime of passion!" I exclaimed, pointing at the Prof in emphasis.

"WHAT?"

I immediately turned to look at the source of the shout. It seemed that a tall, burly man dressed in an expensive suit and tie had just entered the office and I hadn't noticed. He had dark brown skin and both a mustache and beard on his face, as well as sunglasses pushed up above his eyes. He glared at me aggressively, and I realized that this must be the mystery suspect. "Who said anythin' about a crime of passion?"

"Agh!" I exclaimed in shocked surprise. "It's him! The killer!"

The unknown fellow now looked very irritated and definitely cross. "Killer? You better not be calling me a killer, lady!"

"Sorry, Lucy," the Prof apologized from beside me. "I neglected to tell you. I was interviewing this man earlier."

"Oh, right," I replied a bit sheepishly.

"What's your problem with me, huh?" the man asked with a confident smirk, seeing my hesitation. "What have I done wrong?"

I huffed, crossing my arms in order to hide my clenched fists. "Well, Mr, er... err... Oh, that's right, we don't know your name." This man's arrogant demeanor just rubbed me the wrong way. "Withholding information, that's what you've done wrong. You've done summat you want to hide!" I accused.

"If you haven't got the brains to see why I'm doin' this, I feel sorry for you," the suspect replied, clearly angry. He looked like he was about to punch me.

The Prof sighed in exasperation, scratching the back of his head. "Now let's all try to remain calm, shall we? This is all conjecture. No one's making any accusations. Perhaps if you could explain why you feel the need to withhold your identity...?" he suggested.

The burly stranger took in a deep breath and seemed to calm down. "Okay, sure, I refuse to tell you who I am. But I swear I've done absolutely nothin' to break the law. I can't have my name printed in connection with this kind of thing. I've got my business to think about."

"I see," the Prof mused. "So you run a business."

The man suddenly seemed nervous. He must have accidentally given away that fact. "I, I might do."

"And you're worried about possible bad publicity if you reveal your identity, is that right?" the Prof asked, smiling slightly.

"You got it in one, officer," he replied, looking annoyed with himself for letting it slip.

"Look," the man proceeded, "I've told you everythin' I know about what happened that day. Where I was, who I saw. Until my lawyer turns up, I'm not obligated to tell you anythin' more," he pointed out with a smirk.

"I see," the Prof said. "That's fine. We do understand. You're free to go then."

_Wait, what? 'Free to go?'_ "Eh? You're just going to let him waltz out of here?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes."

Just then, there was the sound of someone knocking on the door.

"We have another appointment now, anyway," the Prof continued.

As the mystery suspect left, I could hear him mutter something under his breath. "Urgh, what is that smell? It's that aftershave again..."

_Aftershave?_ That rung a bell in my mind, giving me the impression that it must be important. I had read something like that in one of the statements the Prof had given, but I didn't have the time to figure it out now.

Before the man opened the door to leave, he glanced back and asked, "I dunno why you're makin' such a fuss about me. Haven't you got the guy who did it already?"

"Actually," the Prof replied with a smile, "we have yet to make a firm decision on that."

"But I'm good to go, right?"

"Just don't go too far!" I blurted out before the Prof could respond. "Not until we've got this mess sorted."

The burly black man scowled at me. "I won't try to run, if that's what you mean. Once my lawyer's on hand, I'll answer all your questions."

"Ooh, he's so full of himself," I grumbled under my breath. Louder, I said, "I'm going to find summat on you, you mark my words!"

As the mystery person finally exited, the Prof said, "Well, first we have another interview to conduct with someone else. I believe he's already waiting outside."

Another man came in, this time tall and lanky and the Prof. He had tousled black hair and blueish-purple eyes, and he wore the usual bellboy uniform, though his neckerchief was worn a bit strangely. I dismissed it though, and soon forgot about it. It wasn't my job to correct people's clothing.

"Mr. Zach Carrière, isn't it?" the Prof asked.

"Oui, that is my name," Carrière replied with a friendly smile. He had an accent, French I'd guess. "May I ask what all this is in aid of?"

This Zach Carrière person actually seemed quite nice so far, much more so than the burly stranger who had just left had been. He didn't seem to me like a murderer. But I could already guess what the Prof might say to my thoughts, so I tried to remain cautious of him and alert. Even so, I relaxed a little as I listened.

"As the last person to have seen the victim alive, we were hoping you'd be able to assist us with our inquiries," the Prof said, acting just as friendly as the Carrière fellow was.

"Inquiries?" Carrière asked.

The Prof nodded in reply. "We're investigating the young woman's death and we'd like you to fill in a few gaps for us."

"Oui, bon. If this is all you are asking," Carrière said, now seeming eager to help, "I am 'appy to try to 'elp you. As it 'appens, I am a great fan of crime fiction. I 'ave many things to say about this case, Inspecteur," he added.

"Well, we'll look forward to hearing your opinions, Mr. Carrière," I replied with a smile.

"Par exemple, something Vera - you know, the cleaner? - told me. It is very strange," Carrière said, now grinning almost arrogantly. "It is about the sandwich."

I nodded in remembrance. "Oh aye, the hand sandwich, eh? There were a piece of fried fish just next to it that caught my eye. Very sus, if you ask me."

"You 'ave noticed?" Carrière asked in pleasant surprise. "Bravo, mademoiselle! You are a detective par excellence."

I blushed slightly at the complement, thinking, _Aye, this __Carrière fellow is too nice to be a murderer. Right?_

"Sorry to disturb your Agatha Christie convention, but I'd like to start by investigating the corpse," the Prof interrupted with an amused smile. "If we can establish how Ms. Aldwich died, we may learn something about the sandwich mystery in the process."

"Of course! This is elementary detective work, n'est-ce pas, Inspecteur?" Carrière commented.

"Grand idea, Prof," I said in agreement, eager to get started.

The Prof nodded, a bit absently I noticed, like he was thinking deeply even as he spoke. "So, Lucy. Let's get this investigation underway, hm?"

"Right you are!" I replied with a smile.

* * *

Me and the Prof went back into the reconstruction device after I had snatched my files back from the desk, Carrière close behind. Funny enough, he didn't seem all too surprised by the capabilities of the room. Was I the only one who had been shocked by all this?

I glanced at the Prof, who nodded assent. "First examine the body and we'll see if we can establish a cause of death," he said.

"I'll get on it right away," I said in reply and walked over to the table by the corpse, glancing at it quickly before opening one of the folders I was carrying and sifting through the many notecards. Unfortunately, studying dead bodies closely was not one of my strong suits. I soon found one with a picture of the corpse pinned to it.

**Corpse**

**The dead body of Sandy Aldwich. The cause of death is posterior strangulation with a long, thin, strap-like object.**

Looking back up at the Prof, I said, "So, this is Ms. Aldwich's body."

The Prof studied the corpse for a moment before commenting, "It looks like posterior strangulation. You're familiar with the terminology, are you, Lucy? You know what 'posterior strangulation' is?"

"Aye," I said confidently. "'Posterior strangulation' means someone wrung her neck from behind."

"Precisely," the Prof said in agreement. "That was an easy one. Sadly not all of the problems we tackle here have such simple answers."

"No, I'm sure," I replied.

"What about the murder weapon, uh?" Carrière interrupted. " 'Ave you already located it?"

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Carrière. Yes, according to the report, they did find the murder weapon at the scene," the Prof said with a frown, placing his hand on his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see if you can uncover it too, shall we, Lucy?"

I smiled at him. "No problem."

* * *

"An examination of the body shows that Ms. Aldwich was strangled with a long, thin, strap-like item," the Prof said to me as we stood on the terrace reconstruction. "The murder weapon should be on the scene somewhere, so that's what you're looking for."

"I'll find it, Prof, don't you worry," I replied, determined.

I glanced around my surroundings, not immediately spotting something matching the Prof's description. But I never expected it to be that easy anyway.

"Hmm," I mused quietly to myself, crossing my arms with a thoughtful frown. "Checking places I have already, and thoroughly, would just be redundant. Time to search elsewhere, and somewhere where a murderer would hide a weapon like that." I placed my files onto the flat surface of the deckchair.

The first place I checked was underneath the furniture, however unlikely that seemed to me. All I found was a scrap of paper that looked like a receipt below the table, but it wasn't what I was looking for, so I dismissed it without looking closely and crawled back out from beneath the furniture.

I also studied the corpse a bit more, in case the murderer might have hidden it somewhere on his own victim, but nothing stood out to me.

I tried to search beyond the glass door and curtains, but I pushed them aside only to find a black wall blocking my way through. The Prof saw me and let me know that the terrace was the only area reconstructed. Meaning no access to the hotel room. Sighing, I instead moved on to inspecting the umbrella - there was nothing, of course - and then the potted plant.

Kneeling beside the leafy green bush, I frowned, studying it for a moment.

**Potted plant**

**A potted plant that gives the area something of a Mediterranean feel. A few of the leaves are wilting.**

As I looked more closely, a flash of dull red suddenly caught my eyes. I held some of the branches aside and saw a tie lying limp along the place where the woody stem split into two. I reached my free hand out and touched it, bringing one end closer - the leaves were obscuring some of the view and light - and rubbing the fabric between my fingers.

**Tie**

**A high-quality tie made of silk. It's crumpled and creased, showing signs of having been pulled very tightly.**

"I found a tie here, look," I called out, letting go of the tie and standing back up.

The Prof moved to stand beside me. "Yes," he said. "Which would be consistent with the marks left on Ms. Aldwich's neck."

I grinned in triumph. "So this is it then, eh? We've found the murder weapon!"

Carrière had also stepped over to see what I had discovered. Listening to our deductions, he half-kneeled and looked at the tie for himself. "That cravat..." the bellboy muttered, standing again.

"Oh?" I asked, overhearing him. "Do you know summat about this tie, Mr. Carrière?"

"Oui, it is the cravat of the lover of Mademoiselle Aldwich," he replied. "I believe 'is name is Monsieur Phelps. Oui, Bosco Phelps."

I took in a surprised breath at the important information Carrière had just given us. "By 'eck, you know his name?"

"Oui," the bellboy confirmed. "I was something of a confidant to Mademoiselle Aldwich at times. She told me 'is violence 'ad become too much for 'er again on this vacation." Carrière clenched a fist in anger. "The 'otel was 'er refuge."

"Give over!" I exclaimed. _So this Phelps fellow had violent tendencies, eh?_

"I apologize for not saying this before," he said, seeming abashed, "but I am not comfortable to speak of the private matters of the clientele. Now I wish I 'ad not been so 'ighly principled and per'aps a life could 'ave been saved."

I looked at the Prof expectantly. "We'd best call Phelps back in, eh, Prof? With this new info."

The Prof frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Let me just mull it over for a while," he replied. "First we should tackle this case's biggest mystery."

"Ooh, the hand sandwich?" I asked, eager to find out what was so important about it.

He smiled at me, confirming my suspicions. "Yes."

* * *

"The victim's body was found with her hand thrust among the ingredients of the sandwich she'd ordered," the Prof said. All of us were still in the reconstruction device, on the terrace. We stood by the French windows, behind the umbrella and table.

"Dead fishy, that," I commented.

Carrière nodded in agreement. "Oui, this is of vital importance."

"Let's examine the sandwich first and foremost," the Prof suggested. "Then we'll try to establish what her hand being inside it is telling us."

Taking his advice, I walked around the table and bent down on one knee in order to more closely be able to see the sandwich.

"This is the sarnie in question," I said.

Frowning, I also decided to check my files. I didn't know very much about the food this hotel served, and that knowledge might be important. I picked up one of the folders from the deckchair beside me and opened it, balancing it on my knee. I shuffled through the notecards until I found the one I was looking for.

**Sandwich**

**An extremely full 'double fish' sandwich, one of the hotel's popular specialties. Not a single bite has been taken from it, however.**

"With the mademoiselle's 'and inside," Carrière added as I put the folder back onto the deckchair.

"An intriguing scene indeed," the Prof said, scrutinizing the sandwich from where he stood with those bright yellow eyes of his. Fortunately for me, I was already getting used to them.

Carrière clenched a fist. "Per'aps it is some kind of dying message, non? As I said in my statement, Mademoiselle Aldwich shared my passion for crime fiction. The idea of a murder victim leaving a dying message would not 'ave been strange to 'er," he explained.

_He clearly has a flair for drama and over-expressing._ Either way, Carrière had a very good point.

"You mean, like some sort of clue to the killer's identity? Ee, how exciting!" I exclaimed.

The Prof, on the other hand, didn't seem so eager as me. "Hm, a message?" he pondered calmly. "That's an interesting idea." After a second of thinking, he smiled and said to me, "I'll just adjust things so you can examine the sandwich in more detail. Excuse me a moment." He exited the terrace, coming back rather quickly. The Prof had only been gone for about twenty seconds.

"There," he said. "Now you'll be able to have a more thorough look at it."

Curious as to how it could be 'more thorough', I peered at the sandwich again, leaning closer to it as I did so. Suddenly, a giant magnifying glass shot down from the black ceiling above, jolting to a stop right in front of my face.

"Agh!" I blurted in surprise, almost toppling over onto my back. As I did so, the large glass disappeared back into the ceiling. "Prof, you should have warned me!"

"Well, at least you know now," he pointed out with a slightly amused smile.

Snorting at his off-handed comment, I drew near to the sandwich, prepared this time as the large glass once again shot down from above. I studied the sandwich carefully, taking note of everything I possibly could.

**Pickles**

**A number of thinly sliced pickles. They have a unique smell and flavour that is an acquired taste.**

**~ o ~**

**Aldwich's hand**

**The victim's left hand, placed inside the sandwich with the other fillings. It reeks of pickles.**

**~ o ~**

**Egg**

**A number of slices of hard-boiled egg. The yolk is firm from the egg having been boiled for a sufficiently long time.**

**~ o ~**

**Lettuce**

**So much shredded lettuce that it's spilling out of the sandwich. Exposure to the air is starting to turn the leaves brown.**

**~ o ~**

**Pineapple**

**Extremely sweet tinned pineapple.**

**~ o ~**

**Smoked salmon**

**Salted and smoked slices of salmon, cut very thinly. There are a fair few slices in this sandwich, adding to the overall volume.**

I backed away from the table, seeing the magnifying glass shoot back up to the ceiling where it came from. I then stood up straight, reflexively brushing off my white jeans.

"So," the Prof said, "you've had a look over it now."

"But what is the reason for 'er 'and to be in this sandwich?" Carrière asked aloud.

A thought suddenly struck me, and I frowned as I tried to work it out, crossing my arms. "I wonder if it's not 'why' her hand is in there, but 'where' her hand is in there, if you see what I mean?" I finally suggested, looking at the others questioningly.

"Très intéressant," Carrière said. "Apart from 'er 'and, it is a sandwich of pickles, egg..."

"Yes," the Prof said. "But let's take another tack. Can you think of what Ms. Aldwich might have been trying to convey in this dying message of hers?"

After a moment of thinking, I guessed, "The killer's name."

"And why do you think that?" the Prof asked me.

The pieces of this puzzling sandwich suddenly fell into place. "I've got it!" I exclaimed. "By 'eck! She's spelling out the killer's name with the filling of her sarnie!"

"Of course!" Carrière replied, seeming impressed with me. "The first letter of each of the ingredients. Magnifique! First we 'ave pickles, then 'er hand, egg, lettuce, pineapple and finally smoked salmon!"

"So we do," the Prof said. "Whose name does that spell out then?"

"I've never had to read a sarnie before, but this one spells out P-H-E-L-P-S," I said slowly. My eyes widened as I realized what I had just said. "She were trying to tell us it were her boyfriend, Bosco Phelps. No question!"

Carrière smirked in triumph. "It seems we 'ave identified the killer. Bosco Phelps is guilty of murder. You must arrest this most violent criminal at once!" he exclaimed.

"Don't you worry!" I assured him.

The Prof frowned slightly. "Well, it seems we've reached a conclusion then. Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr. Carrière."

"It was my pleasure. I always like to 'elp to see that justice is done," Carrière replied.

"Aye, ta very much," I told him with a smile.

Carrière nodded at me, smiling back slightly. "Do not 'esitate to contact me if there is anything else I can do," he added.

"I assure you, we'll be in touch," the Prof said.

* * *

Carrière soon left the room and the Prof and I stood in the office, discussing our next move. The case files were lying beside us on the desk.

"So, we know who the culprit is now, correct?" the Prof asked me.

I grinned at him. Mr. Phelps was definitely going to get it. "All sorted!"

"Okay," the Prof replied, smiling slightly at my eagerness. "Well, let's just make sure we're on the same wavelength before we move on, shall we? Who do you think killed Aldwich, Lucy?" he asked.

"It were Phelps, of course!" I said confidently.

The Prof looked at me in exasperation, shaking his head slowly. "Surely you don't actually believe what Carrière said, do you?"

"Eh?" I asked, startled at his reaction. _Was I wrong?_ "What? N-no..."

The Prof clearly wasn't fooled. "You couldn't be further from the truth. You've fallen straight into the trap set for us by the true culprit."

"I have?"

"Yes. Take some time, have another think about it, and then give me your answer again."

_A trap? Set by the true culprit?_ I thought, confused. _But the only one who had a chance to set any trap was... _A light-bulb suddenly lit in my head.

The Prof watched me quite seriously. "Who killed Aldwich?"

What he was hinting at seemed unlikely to me, but if I accepted the Prof's conclusion, a few things began to make sense to me. "It were Carrière, weren't it?" I asked him hesitantly.

"Yes, it was," the Prof confirmed. "No one else could have done it. You only have to look at the heavily contrived dying message to see it."

Now that he had pointed it out to me, it all seemed so obvious that I felt a bit stupid for falling for Carrière's lies. "Aye, it were a bit too good to be true, eh?" I commented sheepishly.

"You did realize that, didn't you?" the Prof asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, hurriedly trying to cover up my mistake of falsely accusing Mr. Phelps. "Of course I realized. I'm a detective par excellence, I'll have you know!"

The Prof smiled at me. _Is that laughter he's holding back?_ I thought irritably. "Okay then. Well, let's examine this elaborate dying message a bit more, hm?"

* * *

The two of us returned to the reconstruction device, me with the files the Prof had given me in hand. After closing the near-invisible door behind us, the Prof turned to me.

"This so-called dying message that 'Phelps' as the culprit... It's clearly a fake, concocted by someone who did not know the man very well at all," he said to me.

_A fake? How is it clear to him?_ I shrugged it off, though. I would know soon enough. "Someone like Carrière, you mean?"

"Yes. There's even evidence on the scene to support that theory."

_There is?_ "I suppose you're expecting me to find it, are you?" I asked with a wry smile.

"An excellent deduction, Lucy," the Prof said to me. _Was he actually teasing me?_ "Get to work, then."

I turned away from him to take in all of the terrace - the crime scene. I needed to start thinking less like a common citizen and more like a professional detective of New Scotland Yard, London. But where in the world could this proof be? I sighed in resignation. Time to get to work then.

I examined the table. Nothing that seemed like conclusive evidence to me, though the piece of fried fish lying by its lonesome seemed very sus. But it didn't help any. Neither the sandwich nor the juice had been consumed, which could help in deducing what time the murder had taken place, but Aldwich could've not been hungry, even if she had ordered these things.

Glancing around while avoiding the Prof's watchful gaze - I didn't want to see what could possibly be a disappointed look - I walked around the table to the side where the umbrella stood, between the pole and the deckchair. I leaned in to look closer and activate the magnifying glass when I took a step forward and heard the sound of a paper crinkling.

Taking my foot away in surprise, I looked down to see a slightly crumpled slip of paper. _That must be the receipt I found earlier. T__his might help me._

I bent over and picked it up, careful not to smack my head against the table bottom. I studied the small slip for a moment before awkwardly opening one of the folders I was holding with my free hand and eventually sliding out a notecard describing the receipt. It was clearly for what Aldwich had ordered, but it was signed with a different name - Bosco Felps. Like Bosco 'Phelps', her lover, but spelled differently. _Pretty sus, if you ask me._

**Receipt**

**A copy of the receipt for the sandwich and juice. It's signed, 'Bosco Felps' but the handwriting is Aldwich's.  
**

My eyes narrowed as I took in this new information. I stuck the notecard back into the folder where it belonged. _If Bosco 'Phelps' is Aldwich's lover, then..._

"This is it!" I called out, turning to the Prof and waving the receipt in my hand as I walked back over to him. "Aye, this receipt's a dead giveaway. It clearly shows the dying message can't have been left by Aldwich," I said to him confidently.

"That's right," the Prof replied with a congratulatory smile. "I'm glad you spotted it. Just so we're clear, what is it about the receipt that exposes the dying message as a fake?"

"The receipt's been signed by Aldwich, but she's forged her fellow's name and written, 'Bosco Felps'," I explained. "But going from the sarnie message, the spelling's 'Phelps'. So he got the spelling wrong! It's spelt with an 'F' not a 'Ph'."

The Prof nodded at me. "Precisely," he confirmed. "And since the receipt was signed by Aldwich, the man's lover, we can be confident that's the correct spelling."

"Which proves that the dying message int' sandwich weren't Aldwich's work at all," I finished.

"That's right. In the interests of being thorough, could you verify the correct spelling with the man himself?" the Prof asked. "I'm sure if you explain why it's so important, he'll cooperate with you."

"Aye, leave it with me, Prof."

I left the reconstructed terrace, aiming to find out his phone number and call him.

* * *

"All done," I said as I returned twenty minutes later to the reconstruction device room. "We were right. His name's Bosco Felps. With an 'F'. Once I told him what were going on, he were actually very helpful."

"Good, so our deductions were correct," the Prof replied.

I smiled in triumph. "It's in the bag then, eh?" I asked. "It were Zach Carrière. No question."

The Prof only frowned in reply for a moment. "Almost no question. But we've yet to find some truly decisive evidence."

I nodded, understanding the problem. "What we need to focus on now is finding evidence that he was the one who actually killed her."

* * *

Frowning in worry, I admitted, "Evidence that Carrière committed the crime? Ee, I don't know where to start, really." We were still in the reconstructed terrace, the folders containing the case notes in my hand.

"Well, the sandwich is the most glaring contender," the Prof pointed out.

"Right," I said. "That were to create summat that looked like a dying message, weren't it?"

"If you wanted to incriminate Felps, there's a somewhat more obvious message, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, now I think I'm starting to see what you're driving at," I replied slowly, my mind working furiously.

"Good. The evidence is all right there," the Prof said. "Evidence that shows why he had to put Aldwich's hand in the sandwich."

My brow furrowed in confusion as I crossed my arms. "No... Sorry, Prof. You've lost me again."

"Okay, well you've had a look around the crime scene, so let's turn our attention to the statements," the Prof suggested.

Nodding in reply, I opened one of the folders, the one that contained the statements.

"Is there a particular statement that makes you stop and think?" he asked.

I sifted through the many notecards, narrowing the statements down until I ended with three of them, all seeming pretty sus to me.

**Bosco Felps (Statement 2)**

**Actually, when I entered the room, there was a strong smell of scent. It wasn't Sandy's perfume. It was the aftershave that bellboy I passed in the corridor wears.**

**~ o ~**

**Bosco Felps (Statement 3)**

**I left the room and hung the 'Please make up my room' sign on the handle as I went. It was an absolute pigsty in there.**

**~ o ~**

**Vera Wipovsky (Statement 1)**

**I only cleaned the room, that's all! The sign was on the door. All the doors lock automatically when they close, but I have a master key, you see.**

Even though her master key could open every hotel door, I quickly eliminated Mrs. Wipovsky's statement. It was increasingly clear that the only importance she held in this case was being the one who discovered the body, nothing more. That left me with two of Bosco Felp's statements.

Remembering the part in Carrière's description that mentioned he was a clean-freak, I had noted the statement commenting on the messiness of Aldwich's hotel room. But that couldn't possibly be why the victim's hand was in her sandwich. Maybe motive for the murder, but I doubted that only a dirty room would cause Carrière to kill Aldwich.

That left the second of Felps's statements. It had caught my attention because...

I showed the notecard to the Prof. "Well, all this talk about perfume and aftershave and that in this statement seems a bit odd to me."

The Prof suddenly grinned and pointed at me, taking me by surprise. "That's it, Lucy!" he exclaimed.

"Eh? It is?" I asked, wondering what was so significant about aftershave and perfume.

"I'll explain later. Call Carrière back here, would you?" the Prof asked me. "Quick as you can."

"Consider it done!" I replied with a smile, infected by his good mood.

* * *

After calling Carrière with the office phone, I turned to the Prof.

"We now have enough evidence to prove Carrière committed the murder," he said to me. "This time we'll crack him."

Just then, there was a knock at the door. I hurried to let Carrière in and the Prof and I guided him to the interrogation room adjoined to the Prof's office, where Mr. Felps had came in from earlier and startled me.

"I am surprised you 'ave asked me to come 'ere again," the bellboy said.

_Well, you won't be soon enough,_ I thought with a mental smirk. _Because we're going to crack you wide open!_

"You 'ave arrested Felps now, I presume?" Carrière continued questioningly.

"No, we haven't," I said, grinning now from the exhilaration at catching my first murderer. "Because Mr. Felps isn't guilty."

Carrière scowled, clenching a fist in anger. "Pardon?"

"Mr. Felps didn't kill Ms. Aldwich," I repeated. "No, the real killer is you, Mr. Zach Carrière!"

"Mon Dieu!" Carrière exclaimed, holding his hands up while acting insulted and shocked. I knew he was pretending, though. "I cannot believe what I am 'earing. You 'ave already established that Felps is the killer, non?"

I smirked. "Oh, that's yesterday's news. You're the new kid on the block today. And it's going to stick."

"Are you out of your mind?" Carrière exclaimed. "The cravat of her lover, the dying message... Everything points to Felps."

"Aye, everything points to Mr. Felps," I replied, "because that's how you set it up."

"If Mr. Felps were truly the killer," the Prof interceded, "surely he would have gone to greater lengths to hide the murder weapon. And there's evidence that proves unequivocally that the author of the dying message was not Ms. Aldwich."

I swear, Carrière growled at this point, he was that mad. "Bof! Impossible! If you 'ave this evidence show it to me. I do not believe you."

I shoved the notecard and the clipped-on receipt I had kept in my pocket in his face. "This receipt is the proof!"

"It is the receipt of the room service, non?" Carrière asked, a smirk appearing on his now confident face. He had no idea what was coming for him.

"Exactly," I replied with a knowing smile.

Carrière laughed aloud. "It was I who gave this paper to the woman in the first place. What can this possibly prove?"

"Have a look for yourself," the Prof suggested.

I held out the receipt and notecard towards Carrière triumphantly, letting him read the two slips of paper.

"You may notice it's signed 'Bosco Felps'," the Prof continued.

"Oui," Carrière said. "And?" Then he realized exactly what it said. "Ah. Non. Non..."

I smirked at him. "Aye, you've seen it now, haven't you? Felps is spelt with an 'F', not a 'Ph'."

"And the signature was penned by Ms. Aldwich," the Prof added. "It's hard to imagine she would have got the spelling of her own lover's name wrong."

Carrière gritted his teeth before replying. "... Mais oui. In normal circumstances, you are right of course. But the sandwich was Ms. Aldwich's dying message, that she 'as created while she was being murdered. In these circumstances, it is no surprise that she 'as made a petite erreur. She was in a panic."

"True, that would make perfect sense," the Prof allowed. "But if Ms. Aldwich was in a panic, then something else she did doesn't make sense at all."

"And what is that?" Carrière spat out.

"A certain piece of evidence should make everything clear," the Prof said. "Lucy. do you know what piece of evidence I'm referring to?"

I knew exactly what he was talking about. That evidence had been bugging me for a long while now, and I finally knew why, as the last pieces of this murder puzzle came together in my mind.

"It's that piece of fried fish with pickle juice on it," I exclaimed in realization. "That means it were int' sandwich originally, either just above, or just below the pickles. I'm sure I don't need to point out what the first letter of 'fried' or 'fish' is, do I, Mr. Carrière?"

"Non..." Carrière muttered in denial, looking very nervous indeed now.

"Anyone who knew the proper spelling of Felps," I said, "wouldn't have taken out the fish finger and stuck in a hand. No, they'd just have taken out the pickles, leaving 'Felps'. Oh, and look - no hands!"

"Zut!" Carrière exclaimed, clutching at his hair in frustration.

"The idea that someone could think to remove some fried fish and put their own hand into a sandwich while being strangled to death is a little too hard to believe," the Prof said slowly. "No, the person who created this had plenty of time, but sadly didn't know the spelling of Felps. Someone rather like you."

"Non, non, NON!" Carrière cried. "Oui, per'aps it was not Mademoiselle Aldwich who left this dying message. But you 'ave nothing to prove it was me who killed 'er. Nothing!"

The Prof smiled at him, in a way I somehow knew meant he had the answer. "We have proof. You see, we have to ask ourselves why the culprit placed the victim's hand in the sandwich at all."

"Mon Dieu, you 'ave just told me!" Carrière said. "To create the misspelt dying message, non?"

"No," the Prof replied. "That's not it. There was another motive for making sure the victim's hand was in the sandwich. Lucy?"

I frowned, wondering just what the Prof was hinting at. Then I remembered what the Prof had said earlier was the answer to everything. It was when I had pointed out the statement about aftershave and perfume...

I gasped, the reason suddenly clicking in my head. "You wanted to mask the smell of your aftershave that were on Ms. Aldwich's hand!"

"Agh," Carrière groaned to himself in defeat.

"Mr. Felps's statement confirms that you frequently wear very strong-smelling aftershave," I continued. "While you were throttling her, I bet Ms. Aldwich were grabbing at you, getting that scent all over her hand. So you needed something to disguise the smell. You put her hand in the sandwich so it got covered in pickle juice," I explained.

"But you knew that the victim having her hand in a sandwich would raise too many questions," the Prof finished. "So you created a diversion, in the form of the dying message. Non?"

I almost laughed aloud. The Prof had just mocked him.

"Non!" Carrière exclaimed. "This is your fantaisie! You 'ave imagined everything."

The Prof smirked, for the first time I had seen him do so. "We have proof. If I'm not mistaken, Ms. Aldwich must have left a mark on you. A wound, where she was grabbing at you when the aftershave rubbed off on her hand."

Carrière scoffed. "You 'ave no basis to say this. Can you see such a wound, 'uh?"

"Not at the moment," the Prof said. "Because you're hiding it. You're hiding it –"

"On your neck!" I exclaimed, finishing the Prof's sentence. "That's the normal place where folk apply aftershave. There or on their wrists."

"And I noticed something about you the very first time I set eyes on you," the Prof added. "That unusual way you wear your neckerchief. Granted, it's just a theory, but I'd be willing to bet you're wearing it like that to cover up a wound."

"Non. Non, non..." Carrière muttered, growing more worked-up by the second. "This wound is –"

"So you admit it?" I interrupted. "There is a wound, then?"

"We'll be able to compare the shape of the wound with Ms. Aldwich's fingers to ascertain the truth," the Prof continued for me. "Unless you'd rather spare yourself the embarrassment and admit to it now?"

Carrière scowled, even though I could tell he knew he was beaten. "I... Non... It, it was all 'er! She is to blame! She was... Just 'ow much money did she think I 'ad?" he suddenly exclaimed.

"Oh? You were paying her money, were you?" I asked, curious about this new development.

"Our job is done, Lucy," the Prof said. "The case is closed. The lawyers can take over from here."

Shrugging, I grinned. "Good luck to them!"

* * *

We stood once again in the office, the interrogation finally done. The police had taken Carrière away only a few minutes ago, and I was secretly relieved that it was over. All of the high-speed comebacks and adrenaline had been starting to get to me. My heart still hadn't slowed down very much yet.

"We cracked it!" I said, slightly breathless.

"Yes, thanks to all the effort you put in, Lucy," the Prof told me, smiling.

I smiled back at him, embarrassed from the complement. "Oh, you know... It were nowt."

"It's a rather exciting place to work, wouldn't you agree?" he asked, as if he knew what I had been thinking only a moment ago.

"Aye, a bit too exciting," I admitted, scratching the back of my head sheepishly.

"I was wondering, Lucy," the Prof offered, "if you'd like to stay on and be my assistant on a more permanent basis?"

I gasped, a grin spreading across my face. "What? You mean I passed your little test?" I asked.

"There's one condition: You have to be willing to learn," the Prof added. "I have a lot to teach you."

"Always happy to learn, me," I assured him, grinning in joyful relief. "Thanks very much, Prof!"

"In that case, for the second time..." the Prof said with a smile. "Welcome to London's New Scotland Yard Serious Crime Division Classified Investigation Agency Headquarters."

"By 'eck, that's a bit of a mouthful!" I exclaimed.

"I couldn't agree more," the Prof replied. "It's a highly inefficient name. That's why I prefer to call it the Mystery Room."

I laughed at this unusual title. "Ee, that sounds dead good, that does. Heh heh. I work int' Mystery Room! Aye, I'm raring to go now!" I said eagerly. "Chuck all your crimes at me, and I'll bat them down one by one!"

The Prof smiled at me in amusement. "That's just the sort of attitude you need, Lucy. Keep that up, and you'll do very well. Your sharp instincts remind me of my brother. I have high hopes for you."

Now this was something interesting to remember. "Oh, a brother, you say?" I asked.

"Yes," the Prof replied. "I'll introduce you one day."

* * *

_"Yes, that's right. I've assigned a young woman there," Commissioner Barton said, on the phone._

_"..."_

_"She's completely inexperienced, but I..."_

_"..."_

_"Of course. I'll continue to keep a close eye on things."_


	3. 002 - The Bungled Burglary

**Disclaimer: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room is not mine.**

* * *

**Information Relevant to the Case**

**~ o ~**

**Jack Potsby (Victim)**

**Age: 28 ****- Male**

**The victim**

**A typical loser, unemployed with a gambling habit. His good looks were his one redeeming feature. It seems he had recently enjoyed a big win.**

**~ o ~**

**Cooking pot**

**(found in the narrow galley kitchen by itself)**

**A very large kitchen pot in which it appears pasta was boiling at the time of the incident.**

**~ o ~**

**Clock**

**(found in the corner of the flat beside the front door)**

**An antique-style grandfather clock with a large pendulum.**

**~ o ~**

**Clock hands**

**(found within the clock)**

**The metal hands of the clock. The long minute hand it slightly bent at the tip.**

**~ o ~**

**Scrap of card**

**(found lying in the bathroom beside the trash bin)**

**A thick, creased scrap of card. It looks like it was intended for the bin, but fell out. It is slightly damp.**

**~ o ~**

**Goldie Potsby-Mahn (Statement 2)**

**When I came out of the bathroom I saw an outlaw running away across the balcony. He was a very muscular man, dressed all in black.**

**~ o ~**

* * *

File No. 002: The Bungled Burglary

* * *

A woman with long, stringy brown hair rolled into the office, sitting on a wheeled stool. Her left arm was connected to an IV and she had dark bags beneath her eyes. The woman wore a while coat over a violet-red collared shirt and skirt with striped leggings and a cream tie. "Al!" she called out, sneezing. "Alfendi!" She glanced around, frowning. "Hmph. Not here."

I peeked out of one of the adjoining rooms before stepping out completely, closing the door behind me. The Prof and I had been organizing files in the storage room I had just came out of. "Can I help you, miss?"

"Oh? Al's got a young woman in here, has he?" she said, sniffing. "My name's Florence Sich." She sneezed, interrupting herself. "I work at the lab."

The Prof came out of the room himself, a sheepish look on his face. "Ah, hello, Florence. You're actually on time today, I see."

"Not funny, Al. You should be ashamed of yourself, bringing a woman back here."

The implications of what Ms. Sich had said struck me like I had just discovered a murder case that was unsolvable. _Ee? It's a strictly assistant-teacher relationship!_ "No! I've just started work here," I explained hurriedly. "I'm Lucy. Lucy Baker."

"Oh, new blood, is it?" Ms. Sich asked. "Well anyway, enough –" She sneezed loudly. "– enough preamble. I want you to look into a case. I've sent our lab report over already."

"It's not like you to ask for help with a case, Florence," the Prof said, now seeming interested in what Ms. Sich had to say. "Is it especially puzzling?"

"It's as clear as a test tube. A burglar broke into a flat and – achoo! – killed one of the residents."

I frowned, crossing my arms. "Well, if it's that black and white, how come you want us to get involved?" I asked.

"Because it doesn't add up," Ms. Sich explained, sniffing.

"Oh?" the Prof asked curiously.

"The suspect's as suspicious as they come. He's made a statement already, but I'm certain there's more to it than, than –" She sneezed. "– than meets the eye. I can't abide the thought of the case being closed before I've dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's."

I smiled at what Ms. Sich was getting us to do. "So you want the Prof to look into it and figure out what's niggling you, is that it?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Would you mind... 'Prof'?"

The Prof looked disturbed at the prospect of another person addressing him as 'Prof'. "I'm not sure I like you calling me that, Florence."

"If that's your only objection, I presume you'll take it on, Prof?" she asked him.

"If you promise to make that the last time you address me like that," the Prof replied with a smile.

"Al, you have a deal."

The Prof frowned. "So, where's the file?"

"Didn't I already say I'd sent it over?"

The Prof walked over to his desk and started to shuffle through the papers and files he had picked up earlier today. He soon pulled out a couple of files that were bundled together with a thin rubber band. "Oh yes, here it is," he said, sliding the band off and studying some of the contents of one of the folders. "Yes, we'll start investigating this at once," the Prof assured Ms. Sich without looking up.

"Just know this: If you fail to solve it, I swear I'll keep calling you 'Prof' until the end of your days," she said, sneezing.

He looked horrified. "Lucy, we have to solve this case," the Prof said to me. "Failure is not an option!"

"Aye, Pro –" I suddenly hesitated, wondering if the Prof's dislike of his nickname extended to me calling him that. "Pro...fessionalism will see us through...?"

I could see Ms. Sich smile in amusement out of the corner of my eye.

* * *

_It were a case that came up just as I were starting to get used to working int' Mystery Room with the Prof._

_It happened in a fairly ordinary studio flat._

_I were used to seeing blood by now. And the male victim in this case were covered in it. That and broken glass._

_There were three suspects._

_I remember being surprised by the clever trick the killer employed. But that weren't the reason why the case stuck in my mind._

_Oh no._

_You see, that were the first time I ever saw 't'other side' of the Prof._

* * *

"Right, let me tell you what we know," the Prof said, taking the files and spreading them out onto his desk. "The victim in this case in a young man, murdered in his first-floor flat."

He passed me a picture from one of the folders, and I peered at it closely.

It seemed to have been taken at the scene of the crime, because it depicted the murdered man with his shirt darkened red by a large bloodstain that had dripped to the floor and formed into a small puddle around his chest. The body was by a shattered floor-to-ceiling window and was surrounded by broken shards of glass. I steeled myself for when I would have to actually get close to a reconstructed version of the man's corpse.

"We've already managed to identify him, and he's something of a loose cannon," the Prof continued.

I looked up from the gruesome photo, curious. "Oh?"

"Yes. A certain Jack Potsby," he confirmed. "The incident occurred a few days ago, just after midnight. His wife, a woman by the name of Goldie Potsby-Mahn, was having a shower when she heard him scream. She ran out of the bathroom to see her husband lying on the floor and the culprit running away. According to her statement, the killer was a muscular man dressed entirely in black."

I nodded thoughtfully, smiling. "That should give us a good head start with finding him then, eh?"

"Well," the Prof replied, "the block's caretaker who was on duty at the time heard the sound of glass breaking. He ran upstairs and knocked on Potsby's door, whereupon the wife told him about the intruder. Wasting no time, the caretaker conducted a search of the grounds and apprehended a suspicious man."

"He got him?" I asked, happy with the turn of events. "What do they need us for then? There's nowt for us to do, surely."

"Well, the apprehended man has an alibi," the Prof said with a frown. "...of sorts. He's a known petty criminal by the name of Buster Nicks. He claims he was attempting to break and enter a ground-floor flat at the time."

I huffed in annoyance, crossing my arms. "Oh, very nice! The lies some people tell!" I exclaimed.

The Prof didn't reply to my comment and instead continued. "He says he ran off when he heard the sound of shattering glass. In his statement, however, he claims he didn't see anyone coming down from the floor above."

"Of course he didn't," I said with a scowl. "Because it were him that did it. The thieving numpty's incriminated himself wi' that!"

"I think not. If he wanted to deceive us, he'd be claiming he did see someone else running away, surely?" the Prof pointed out.

I blinked in surprise and frowned. _Hmm... I guess so._ "Oh. Aye, I suppose you're right. That would make more sense."

"That's what's really bothering me," the Prof said, frowning like me but more deeply. I could almost see the gears of his mind whirring like crazy. "If you conclude Nicks is telling the truth, things get very complicated."

"Don't they just."

"So, let's start making some deductions, shall we?" the Prof asked me. "Do you think you can determine who did it from the crime scene and witness statements we have?"

I sighed. "You're going to put me ont' spot again, are you?"

"I tell you what," the Prof replied with a smile. "First let me fill you in on the three suspects." He passed me a notepad with a pencil stuck through the metal spirals. Recognizing what he was doing, I took it and flipped it open to the first notes that appeared.

"To start with, of course, we have the burglar, Buster Nicks," the Prof said.

**Buster Nicks (Suspect)**

**Age: 61 - Male**

**Suspicious man caught nearby**

**An old lag and serial burglar, known for his swift getaways. He was dressed in black and caught near the block of flats.**

"Very suspiciously," the Prof continued, "he was caught in the gardens around the block of flats immediately after the incident."

"But there's his statement, don't forget," I reminded him. "If he really is our man, then what he said doesn't make sense."

The Prof nodded at me in agreement. "No, quite. We must be careful not to jump to any conclusions. Next, there's the caretaker."

I flipped through the notepad until I found what looked to be the description of the caretaker.

**Chase M. Downes (Suspect)**

**Age: 45 - Male**

**Caretaker at the block of flats**

**Concierge of the flats where the incident occurred. A keen body-builder who's recently joined an exclusive nearby gym. He can get violent when angered, it seems.**

"His actions, from when the incident occurred to when he caught Nicks seem to be nothing but laudable," the Prof mused.

"He could always have engineered it that way, couldn't he, though?" I pointed out questioningly.

The Prof didn't answer and instead moved on. "Finally, there's the victim's wife, Ms. Goldie Potsby-Mahn," he said.

**Goldie Potsby-Mahn (Suspect)**

**Age: 32 - Female**

**Potsby's wife**

**Jack Potsby's wife. A stunning beauty. Sadly, this isn't the first husband she's survived.**

"She claims to have been showering at the time of the incident and was the one who discovered the victim," the Prof said.

I looked at the small picture of her paper-clipped to the piece of paper above the notes. "Wow, what a stunner!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, really?" the Prof asked with a frown. "Is she?"

_What? Is he being serious?_ "Are you joking?" I asked aloud.

He seemed to ignore me. "Well, anyway, that's what we know about the suspects," the Prof said. "Now, I've set up the reconstruction device to include all the info we've gleaned so far for your perusal. We're a little short on details for you to say with any certainty at this stage, but what's your gut instinct, Lucy?" he asked me. "Who do you think the culprit is? Once you've had a think about that, we'll start trying to make logical deductions."

"Hmm..." I mused, thinking deeply. "I guess Ms. Potsby-Mahn."

"Interesting," the Prof replied simply. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

"She were the one that found the body," I pointed out. "Once you see it makes no sense for that thief, Nicks, to have given a false statement, she's next ont' list."

The Prof frowned, looking a bit exasperated but accepting. "I can't say it's a compelling deduction, but I think you're right to suspect the wife. In fact, I'd say there's a..." He rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "... 96.4% probability that Potsby-Mahn is the culprit."

I smiled at him. _There he goes with the percentages._ "You're pretty sure of yourself again, aren't you, Prof?" I asked, amused.

"Well, there's still an uncomfortable 3.6% band of uncertainty that we must eliminate," he said seriously. "I'll need to speak directly to the suspect in order to clear up one or two loose ends."

I pursed my lips at the thought. "I assume you mean..."

"Our prime suspect, Ms. Goldie Potsby-Mahn," the Prof confirmed.

"Aye!" I exclaimed. _Having to talk to the possible murderer myself? That'll be unnerving._

"Though it's not officially related to this case, the woman has an extremely worrying history," the Prof continued. "She's had three previous marriages, every one of which has ended with her spouse dying."

Frowning at this, I slid the pencil out of the spirals and edited the notes about her in the notepad.

**Jack Potsby's wife. A stunning beauty. She has already been widowed three times in the past and lives a very opulent life off the resulting life insurance.**

"Give over!" I said at the same time, indignant at the thought of Ms. Potsby-Mahn's other husbands. "Talk about leaving a trail."

"The police and insurance companies investigated the incidents, of course," the Prof assured me. "But they couldn't find any indication of foul play."

I crossed my arms, brow furrowed in confusion. "Maybe she's just dead unlucky then, do you think?"

"Let's reserve judgment on that until we've met the woman in person. She should be here any minute."

"Do you think she has any idea we're onto her?" I asked.

The Prof frowned. "'To help us with our investigation' was the way I put it when I asked her to come in. She probably knows."

"I guess we'll just have to try and catch her off-guard then, eh?"

He nodded. "I don't expect she'll give much away, but as we home in on the truth, hopefully she'll get flustered." The Prof smiled at me. "I'm counting on your help, Lucy."

I smiled back at him sheepishly. "Well, it doesn't sound like it's going to be a walk in the park, but I'll do what I can." I placed the notepad back onto the desk, beside the folders.

There was a knock on the door right before I could hear it open with a click.

"Good," the Prof said, pleased. "Because I believe she's here."

A tall young woman then walked into the office, her large white fur coat trailing behind her. She was wearing it with the top part hanging down, only her arms actually within the coat. She also had on a violet-red dress that showed off her curves and dull gold jewelry around her waist, neck, and wrist that matched her makeup. Her long black hair curled slightly near the end and reached down to mid-back, part of her hair clearly dyed and done up with hair spray.

"Now were you the gen'leman who requested mah presence here?" she asked the Prof, seeming to ignore me. She was looking at him up and down like she was inspecting him instead of the other way around and I had a sudden sense of protectiveness. It disappeared rather quickly though, at the sight of something else.

"What the -" I exclaimed, surprised by the appearance of the person standing by Ms. Goldie Potsby-Mahn.

It was an aggressive-looking man dressed in a leather jacket and white shirt, with plain blue jeans. What was the most outstanding thing about him was that his facial features were much like a dog's, with ear-like protrusions sticking out of his messy brown hair, and the man was wearing a large red collar studded with steel points. A chain hung down from the collar and was being held by Ms. Potsby-Mahn. I had no idea how he looked like that or why he had a collar, but it was a bit disturbing to me.

"Ms. Goldie Potsby-Mahn?" the Prof asked, seeming unfazed by the strange sight in front of him.

The woman smirked. "That is mah name. A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure."

I gulped reflexively, a bit nervous. "And, er... who's this fellow with you?" I asked hesitantly.

"Well, I would have thought that was perfectly plain," she said, placing her free hand on her waist assertively. "Bing here is mah new man." Ms. Potsby-Mahn leaned against 'Bing' suggestively. He growled, but at us instead of her, like he was supporting her claim.

"You've got a new fellow? Already?" I asked, loud out of surprise and indignation. "But your husband's barely cold!"

She looked at me with a frown, feigning confusion. "Husband? Oh, yes. I did have a husband, that's right."

This woman was starting to get on my nerves. "Ee, talk about unfeeling..." I muttered to myself under my breath. Louder, I asked, "And what's that you've got around your fellow's neck? A collar?"

"Isn't it swell?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said. "I chose it mahself." Bing growled again. I guessed he could sense my slowly growing anger, just like a dog.

"Unbelievable. You can't do that!" I exclaimed, clenching my fists.

She raised her eyebrows at me. "Well, I do declare! The pohlice, interfering in a young lady's private affairs of the heart!" she accused, placing a hand on her chest like she was as innocent as they come.

"No, that's not what I meant at all," I said, hurriedly trying to backtrack. "I were -"

"Ms. Potsby-Mahn," the Prof interrupted, "we fully respect your privacy, and your relationship with this man is not our concern." He frowned. "However, I wonder if we might ask your friend to leave us alone while we discuss the case?"

"Bing is mah best friend, Inspector," she purred. "We have no secrets between us. If I say stay, he stays."

"I'm afraid I cannot allow information about the case to be revealed to a third party," the Prof pointed out. "Please, if you wouldn't mind..."

I could see anger flash across the woman's face for a moment before it was replaced with a compliant expression. "Oh, very well," she finally said. "Bingo, home, boy! Go wait for me under the porch."

Bing whined questioningly.

"Now, boy!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn insisted.

The dog-like man whined once more before leaving the room.

* * *

"Thank you," the Prof said, smiling slightly. "Now, allow me to introduce myself, if a little late. I'm Inspector Layton."

"And I'm Lucy Baker," I added, "the Prof's assistant."

The woman looked at me with narrowed eyes for a moment before focusing on the Prof again. I bristled at her quick dismissal of me. "And what is it that you want with l'il ol' me?" she asked. "I already gave the nice gen'leman mah statement. Why, everyone knows it was that no-good outlaw who committed this heinous crime."

_Heinous?_ I thought, irritated. _You didn't even remember your husband until a few minutes ago!_

"Indeed, as likely as that may seem, there are a number of issues we still need to clear up," the Prof explained.

"Oh really, Inspector?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked with a scowl.

"Yes," the Prof replied. "Well, two issues, to be precise. Firstly, the exact circumstances of the victim's death. We need to establish whether or not he really was killed by an intruder."

The woman huffed. "I have already told you I saw the intruder with mah own eyes."

The Prof simply continued, ignoring her. "Secondly, there's the intruder's point of entry. Exactly how did the culprit enter the flat?"

"Why, though the window, of course," she said, acting insulted. "You need only look at the scene to know it. Have you even read mah statement, Inspector?"

"Naturally," the Prof replied, his hands within his newspaper-filled pockets. "I have read all the witness statements. It's our job to iron out all these little details one by one, you see. I hope you won't mind helping us?" he asked.

_Go, Prof! Get her where it hurts!_ I thought eagerly.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked. "It would be mah pleasure, if it helps bring that murdering outlaw to justice."

"Good," the Prof said with a smile. "So, Lucy, shall we begin our investigation?"

"Aye, let's get stuck in, Prof!" I exclaimed in agreement, picking the files up from the desk. I was going to need them.

* * *

"We can't make any useful deductions until we've established exactly how the victim was killed. We should start by examining the body," the Prof suggested as we stood in the office.

"Right you are," I replied with a smile.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn only hmph'd.

* * *

We entered the reconstruction device, me and the Prof first while our prime suspect trailed behind. Looking around, I noticed that we had come out from right beside the front door. I turned around to see the Prof closing the door behind us, the exit once again invisible except for the doorknob. I watched Ms. Potsby-Mahn carefully, trying to see if she was surprised. Apparently, she wasn't. _But she could be hiding it._ I thought. _I refuse to be the only one who was actually surprised by the reconstruction device._

"So, let's explore the scene of the crime. If anything jogs your memory, Ms. Potsby-Mahn, do tell us," the Prof said.

"I'm sure I don't see the point of all this carry-on when I have already told you who the criminal is," she commented.

The Prof smiled slightly. "I'm afraid this is just the procedure we always follow, so if you wouldn't mind playing along..."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn just shrugged carelessly.

"Alright, Lucy, let's get started," the Prof said, satisfied.

"Aye, let's see if we can't find summat the killer left behind by mistake," I said confidently, glancing at Ms. Potsby-Mahn.

The woman didn't miss my look. "Are you sure this l'il spring chicken is up to the task, Inspector?" she asked with a scowl. "She seems mighty inexperienced. Whatever would a poor, defenseless young widow like me do if she was falsely accused by a rookie?" She then adopted a hurt look, trying to play on the Prof's nice side.

I clenched my free hand into a fist, restraining myself from slapping Ms. Potsby-Mahn with the folders I held. "Oh, please!"

"There's no need for concern," the Prof assured her. "I shall be keeping a close eye to make sure everything is done in the proper way."

I nodded before turning away and proceeding to walk towards Mr. Jack Potsby's dead body. I was smirking on the inside, glad that the Prof had taken my side, or at least remained neutral.

Kneeling carefully beside the corpse to avoid the blood and shards of glass, I studied the body closely. His cause of death was simple enough. I wouldn't need to look at the notecards within the folders I was carrying.

**Corpse**

**The victim's dead body. He was fatally stabbed in the back. No other signs of external injury are in evidence.**

I got up and returned to the Prof and Ms. Potsby-Mahn with a slight smile.

"Right, I think you've established the cause of death now, haven't you?" the Prof asked me.

"Aye," I replied. "He were fatally stabbed."

The Prof frowned. "Yet Nicks wasn't found carrying a likely murder weapon, so..."

I almost immediately got what he was implying. "So it must've been disposed of somewhere here int' room."

"Well, I do declare!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed with fake indignation. "That murdering thief just cast aside his deadly weapon right here in mah home? And am I to understand that you have no idea what the murder weapon even is? Do you quite know what you are doing, Inspector?"

"Please, be patient," the Prof said before turning to me. "Lucy, we need to locate the murder weapon."

"I'll track it down, Prof, don't you worry," I assured him.

"I do believe you two need a helping hand," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said with a smirk. "The thief fled over the balcony. Maybe look there?"

I scowled at the young woman's attitude and ignored her. Instead, I glanced around the flat and spotted a gleam of shiny metal out of the corner of my eye. Turning to get a better view, I saw that what had attracted my attention was a set of three kitchen knives stowed in a cupboard under the sink. It had been left open sometime previously.

"There's some kitchen knives here, Prof," I pointed out, glancing back towards him. "Could do the job."

"That would be consistent with the long, thin blade that forensics tells us the victim was stabbed with," the Prof mused.

I smiled in triumph. "Aye, he were skewered with one of these alright. Right int' middle of his back."

"Sadly not," the Prof said with a shake of his head. "That's not the weapon we're looking for."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked in cold amusement.

"Oh?" I asked in surprise. "Why not?"

"An officer already found those knives and forensics has examined them for traces of blood," the Prof explained. "None was found. In fact, they look almost brand new. I'd say the inhabitants of this flat rarely cooked," he commented.

I blinked, beginning to smile. _Did the Prof just insult Ms. Potsby-Mahn?_

The woman in question seemed to think so. "Now, Inspector, whether we cooked for ourselves or not is surely none of your business!" she exclaimed indignantly.

Ignoring her, I said, "Oh, pity. I thought I were on to summat with that."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked as she crossed her arms. "I'm beginning to feel like you will never find the murder weapon at all," she remarked.

"On the contrary. We will most certainly find it. Lucy," the Prof said with a determined expression, "let's keep looking."

I nodded, smiling back at him with the same determination, and cast my gaze once again around the flat, walking around slowly as I did so. After even looking in the bathroom and closet included with the reconstruction, I frowned. _Is there really nothing here?_ My eyes fell upon the glass shards around Mr. Potsby's body. Maybe...

I stepped past the circular table with beer cans on it and bent over to look at the shattered pieces of glass.

**Broken glass**

**Shards of glass that exploded all over the flat when the window was smashed. Considerable force must have been used, throwing pieces on top of the body, even.**

After a moment, I called out, "These shards of glass are pretty sharp, Prof." I stood back up straight and glanced towards him.

He walked over to where I was standing. "You mean one of the larger ones could have made a makeshift weapon?" the Prof asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"That's what I was thinking, aye," I confirmed.

"Yes, the investigating officers had the same idea," the Prof said, "so forensics studied every contender."

I frowned. "Eh-up, here comes a 'but'."

"But," the Prof said, emphasizing the word, "none of the shards match the size and shape of the victim's wound."

"I knew it," I sighed in disappointment.

"Oh mah, what terrible luck," Ms. Potsby-Mahn commented. She had strode over as well.

The Prof pursed his lips. I thought he looked as though he was trying to restrain himself. "Keep looking, Lucy. What else could have been used?"

"When is all this carry-on going to end?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked loudly with a scowl. "Mah poor heart surely cannot take much more. The pohlice have already turned mah home upside-down and found no trace of a murder weapon. Surely you should be looking in the grounds where that murdering outlaw was caught instead?"

"We've already completed a thorough search of the surrounding area," the Prof pointed out.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn huffed. "Then that wicked man must have just swallowed it, mustn't he?"

"What, stick a knife down his throat?" I asked incredulously. "Give over!"

"Now don't tell me you have never seen a sword-swallower before?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said in amusement.

"Perhaps we should take a step back and examine the facts we know about the murder weapon again," the Prof suggested. "Lucy, there were no other obvious signs of physical trauma on the victim, correct? What does that tell you?" he asked. "He was stabbed in the back and has no other wounds, so..."

"If he's no other injuries and he were stabbed int' back," I mused aloud, "I'd say he were caught totally unawares."

The Prof smiled at me. "I couldn't agree more."

"So we can be fairly certain the victim were killed in a surprise attack," I said.

"Oh, mah poor Jack!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn bemoaned. "That cowardly thief murdered him without even looking him in the eye. The man is beyond contempt!"

"That would be nothing short of a miracle," the Prof remarked. "After all, we're talking about a complete stranger entering the room."

My face lit up. "Aye, there's no way he wouldn't have put up a fight. That'd make no sense at all."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn scowled, seeming nervous for a sudden moment. But she recovered quickly enough to make me doubt my own sight. "Poor Jack. He must have drifted off to sleep in front of the television. Mah poor honey did that a lot," she commented smoothly. "That must be the reason why he did not notice that murderous villain breaking into the apartment."

"That's an interesting new piece of information," the Prof said, smiling slightly. "We'll file it as a witness statement if you don't mind. Lucy?"

"Got it, Prof," I replied, already opening one of the folders I held and taking out a blank notecard. I used the pencil from the notepad to quickly scribble down what Ms. Potsby-Mahn had just said.

**Goldie Potsby-Mahn (Statement 3)**

**Jack often used to doze off while he was watching the television.**

"I'd say that's more or less all we can deduce about the circumstances of death at this stage," the Prof concluded.

* * *

I frowned, looking at the Prof. "So we're trying to work out how the killer got into the room, are we?" I asked him.

"That's right," he replied.

"Now I am quite sure that could not be more plain," Ms. Potsby-Mahn insisted. "Why, you only need look at all that shattered glass to know that the outlaw came in through the window."

"And that's the only possible way in, is it?" the Prof asked, sounding a bit skeptical. "Isn't there some other way into the flat other than through the window?"

"I'll have a look around and see what I can figure out, Prof," I suggested.

* * *

Glancing around the flat from where we stood by the corpse, I walked towards the front door, feeling rather ridiculous for thinking this might be the way in the Prof was looking for. I searched through the notecards in the folders I held and soon found the right one.

**Door**

**A door leading out of the flat. Fingerprints belonging to the victim, his wife, and the warden were identified on the handle. The key was kept inside the flat.**

Sensing rather than seeing the other two approach me, I slid the notecard back into the folder. "If the door were locked and the key were inside the flat at the time," I thought aloud, "then –"

"Then it's plain to see that the outlaw did not walk in through the front door, as I have said," Ms. Potsby-Mahn interrupted snootily. "Which, I do declare, brings us back to the window. The murdering thief broke in through the window and stabbed mah poor Jack in the back."

"I find that hard to believe," the Prof said. For once, he seemed to be peeved at someone, although he did a good job of hiding it. "Lucy, what do you think?"

"Eh-up, what if the door weren't locked when he broke in?" I suggested. "It could've been locked later on, no?"

Ms. Potsby-Mahn tsk'd in pretend disappointment. "Mah poor, simple l'il girl. Did you not notice the doors on these apartments all lock by themselves?"

I gritted my teeth, not yet willing to give in. "Then maybe someone let him in. How about that?"

"I can assure you, I had never set eyes on that man before," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said, one hand placed on her waist assertively. "And neither had mah husband. Why would Jack let a stranger into his home? Or are you implying that I let the outlaw inside mahself? Let us not forget that any man entering the building would have had to pass the caretaker," she pointed out.

"Indeed," the Prof admitted. "It seems unlikely that Nicks could have gained entry to the flat through the front door. I think we should examine the window in more detail, Lucy."

"Aye, alright, Prof," I said with a nod. "I'll give it a good going over."

I walked over to the window and inspected it as closely as I could, keeping well away from the shards of glass and the dead body. I knew the obvious, but what fingerprints might have been lifted from the glass was another story. I searched through one of the files I held and pulled out the notecard that went with the window.

**Window**

**A French window that opens out onto the balcony. Broken glass from it is scattered on the floor inside. It was unlocked, and all fingerprints have been wiped off.**

_All fingerprints wiped off? Pretty sus. _I looked behind me, back at the Prof and Ms. Potsby-Mahn. "It were obviously smashed deliberately, eh?" I said.

"Can you ascertain from which side the window was broken?" the Prof asked, stepping over to where I was and ignoring Ms. Potsby-Mahn, who followed him almost immediately.

"It were broken from the outside," I commented. "From the balcony."

"And how do we know this?" the Prof asked me, as if he was quizzing me instead of solving a murder.

"Because of where the broken glass fell," I pointed out with an amused smile. "Most of it's inside the room."

The Prof nodded, confirming my answer. "Exactly. This window was clearly smashed with some considerable force from the outside."

"Now at last will you believe mah statement is true?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked, flipping her hair aside. "The outlaw broke into mah home and murdered mah husband."

I sighed inaudibly in defeat. "Prof, it does se –"

"I have not finished, young lady!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn interrupted. "There is a piece of vital evidence on the balcony. Something left behind by the outlaw. But of course, you would already have noticed something so obvious now, wouldn't you?"

Trying to keep my mouth shut, I exited out onto the balcony before she could say anymore, as one of the panes of glass in the windows had not been reconstructed to provide an easy way through. Glancing around, I almost missed it had I not looked downwards and spotted a blood-stained towel hidden in a corner of the balcony. Kneeling beside it, I immediately looked for the notecard accompanying the towel and quickly read the written contents.

**Blood-stained towel**

**A towel stained with the victim's blood. It belonged to Potsby and his wife, and is normally kept inside the flat.**

"Ee, there's a blood-stained towel ont' balcony here, Prof!" I called out, glancing over my shoulder to look inside the reconstructed apartment.

"Pur-lease do not tell me you failed to notice such an obvious piece of evidence before?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said loudly.

_Agh! She was trying another shot at me with the same thing again?_ "No!" I exclaimed, denying the obvious. "I knew it were there! I were just getting round to it, that's all."

"Mah, is that so?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn purred, smirking.

"It would appear to be a towel used to wipe the blood off the murder weapon," the Prof commented, seeming to ignore our arguing.

I tried to rein myself in and frowned. "But why's it been chucked out there ont' balcony?" I asked aloud.

"Now surely you can figure that out without mah help," Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked. "Clearly the outlaw threw it away there after he stabbed mah husband and fled over the balcony."

"Well, maybe, aye." _But it doesn't make sense,_ I thought. _Why would a burglar bring a towel with him if he was going to rob a place? And he would have to be a careless robber to just leave it behind him as he escaped. _I pursed my lips. _Clearly Ms. Potsby-Mahn's words don't add up._

"There is one thing I'd like to double-check," the Prof said, frowning. "Let's assume that the culprit did indeed break the window in order to get inside the flat. The loud noise would have alerted everyone to the intrusion. Does that not strike you as a rather clumsy approach for a seasoned housebreaker?" he asked.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked. "The window was locked. Why, the outlaw had no choice."

"It was locked?" the Prof asked, seeming interested. "Can you be sure of that?"

"I do declare I can. I distinctly remember it was locked from before," Ms. Potsby-Mahn confirmed. "I always check all the doors and windows before I denude mah body to take a shower, Inspector."

"Very reassuring to know. I'm pleased we could clear that up," the Prof replied. "Lucy, make a record of it, would you? It's fundamental to the case."

I nodded, already whipping out the notecard going with the window and the pencil to edit the words.

**A French window opening out onto the balcony. Glass shards inside the flat prove it was broken from outside. Though locked prior to the incident, it is now open.**

"I am delighted that we are finally seeing eye to eye," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said, her mouth curled up in a half-smile.

"Keep the locked door in mind, Lucy," the Prof advised me.

"I'll make a mental note, Prof," I assured him.

The Prof then frowned. "There's one more thing I'd like to try to clear up if I may?" he questioned.

"And what might that be?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn replied.

"You've already mentioned it in your statement, but did you hear the noise of the window smashing?"

"I most certainly did," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said. "Why, I still remember it now. I was in the shower at the time. Then I heard mah husband scream. I came running out of the bathroom, and I saw the outlaw. As I said in mah statement, he was wearing black from head to toe, and he fled over the balcony."

"And you stand by your statement?" the Prof asked. "That's exactly what happened?"

Ms. Potsby-Mahn scowled. "Well! I hope you are not implying that I am a liar, Inspector?" she accused.

"I merely wanted to confirm the accuracy of your very important statement," the Prof said, smiling slightly. _Is he mocking her? _I thought. _Because it sure sounds like it._ "Thank you very much."

Without having to be told, I already took out one of Ms. Potsby-Mahn's statement cards and erased some of it, adding in the things she had just said.

**Goldie Potsby-Mahn (Statement 1)**

**I was taking a shower when I heard a window shattering. Then I heard my husband scream, so I hurried out of the bathroom to see what was wrong.**

* * *

"Well, I do believe the 'issues' that were troubling you are no more. We have proven that outlaw is guilty," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said, peering at her perfectly manicured fingernails with pursed lips. We were still within the reconstruction room, although I had gone back through the windows and we had returned to the front door of the reconstructed flat, where the exit was.

"Oh aye?" I asked loudly, clenching my fists.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn raised her eyebrows, looking up at me from her fingernails. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"The victim were taken by surprise and stabbed from behind," I pointed out. "Smashing your way through a window hardly qualifies for a surprise attack, does it?"

"Mah poor, sorry simpleton." Ms Potsby-Mahn huffed, crossing her arms. "You still fail to understand. Mah husband was sleeping at the time. He did not hear the outlaw breaking the window."

I fumed. "Give over. Are you really -"

"Are you doubting me?" she interrupted. "You have already taken such a long time establishing that the window was smashed from the outside. That in itself is surely compelling evidence that the outlaw broke in to mah home as I have described."

I gritted my teeth, trying to come up with countering evidence. "Er..."

"There can be no more room for doubt!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said before I could retort. "I would kindly request that you allow me to go back to mah home now, Inspector."

"Of course," the Prof replied. "Thank you very much for your cooperation. We shall get our files in order now after all the new information you've given us."

"I believe that would be for the best. Such a simple case as this can surely be laid to rest now," Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked.

"One last thing!" the Prof suddenly said.

I blinked in surprise. I'd never heard the Prof raise his voice before, much less shout or the like.

"Yes?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked, looking downright irritated and annoyed.

"If we happen across any other awkward issues," he said slowly, as if to calm himself down, "I presume you wouldn't mind helping us again?"

"... As long as you are not wasting mah time, Inspector, I should be glad to help," Ms. Potsby-Mahn finally replied.

The Prof nodded. "Thank you. I wish you all the best."

"Much obliged, I'm sure," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said.

* * *

After the stuck-up rich woman left, the Prof and I returned to the office. I slapped the files I held back down onto the desk, all worked up from that investigation. I was tempted to call it disastrous, but I had a hunch that the Prof had gathered a bunch of useful information from that encounter, even if I hadn't seen it at the time.

"Ee, Prof, are you sure about just letting her go like that?" I blurted out.

"We weren't going to reach a conclusion like that," the Prof replied, frowning. "She knows that we suspect her."

I sighed, letting out my frustration. "Sorry, Prof. That's my fault. I got a bit het up."

"Don't apologize. We all get worked up sometimes. Anyway, I'm quite certain now that she is the culprit," the Prof assured me.

"Aye, likewise," I replied with a smile. "You can tell she's hiding summat by the way she's that quick to get mardy."

"I'm convinced she hid the murder weapon somewhere in the room after she killed her husband," the Prof explained. "She wouldn't have had time to dispose of it outside before the caretaker arrived. Then she arranged the scene to look like an intruder broke in from outside. However, there's an inconsistency between the course of events she describes and the scene she set up."

I frowned in confusion. "Is there?" I asked.

"Of course. There's no such thing as a perfect lie, Lucy," the Prof commented. "The murder weapon is somewhere at the scene of the crime without question."

"Well, if we can find it, we'll blast a whopping great hole in that double-barreled bimbo's story!" I exclaimed.

"There are two issues: the murder weapon, and the way she set the scene to make it look like a break-in," the Prof pointed out.

"Right, okay," I replied.

* * *

I grabbed the files back from the desk as we entered the reconstruction room again.

"We need to locate some irrefutable proof that shows Potsby-Mahn's statement to be false," the Prof told me.

I nodded, smiling eagerly. "I hear you, Prof!"

Looking carefully around the apartment, I frowned thoughtfully before opening one of the folders and taking out the notecards that had Ms. Potsby-Mahn's statements written on them.

Statement Three only talked about Jack's tendency to doze off while watching the television. I couldn't think of anyway that could be disproved, since the man in question was dead and plenty of people had this habit. Statement Two... possibly. But as far as I knew, there was no other evidence on the balcony except for the blood-stained towel. And I doubted I would be able to pick up shoe scuffs on the dark concrete or something like that.

That only left Statement One, which described what Ms. Potsby-Mahn had heard when she was taking a shower. Was this what the Prof was talking about? If so, I would have to investigate...

I looked towards the corpse and the shattered window. If there was an inconsistency with Statement One, that meant there would have to be something wrong with the appearance of the dead body and the window. But what might it be?

Walking over to the broken window and body, I made sure to avoid the shards and pool of blood as I kneeled carefully onto the stained rug. I studied the scene as best as I could. The corpse of Jack Potsby laid on the floor, covered in shattered glass. What could possibly be wrong with this image?

I heard footsteps approach me from behind and I glanced up to see the Prof watching me. "There's bits all over the place, look," I commented, waving my hand towards the general area of the glass shards. "Someone gave it a fair old thump from out there ont' balcony."

The Prof only frowned at me. "Doesn't the position of the fragments say something to you?" he asked.

"Aye. They're all on the inside," I said. "I already picked up on that, Prof."

"Yes, that's right. But what about the position of the fragments relative to the body?" he questioned. "That should tell you something important about the sequence of events."

I stared at the corpse, as if it would give me an answer out of nowhere. "Sequence of events..." I muttered to myself. "The position relative to the body?"

_Well, the shards of glass are all scattered on top of the dead body... On top..._

"Eh-up, I think I know what's wrong, Prof!" I said cheerfully, standing back up to face him. "The broken glass."

"Good," he replied. "Which statement would that be inconsistent with?"

"Potsby-Mahn's first statement," I answered simply.

"You've got it!" the Prof suddenly exclaimed as he pointed towards me, taking me by surprise. I almost flinched at the speed.

"I've got it!" I repeated just as eagerly, although a bit more confused.

The Prof smiled at me. "Yes, the broken glass is quite clearly inconsistent with that statement."

"We've backed Potsby-Mahn into a corner now," I replied happily. "This proves she's been lying."

"Of course, you appreciate what the inconsistency is exactly, don't you?" the Prof asked me.

"Aye," I said. "The bits of broken glass are on top of the body, not underneath it. That's all wrong."

"Precisely," the Prof confirmed. "This puts paid to the idea that an intruder broke in via the window and killed Potsby. Well spotted, Lucy."

I laughed a little. "It's nowt, Prof."

"Let's see if we can find the murder weapon the suspect used," the Prof told me. "She must have hidden it somewhere here. Judging by the shape of the victim's wound, we're looking for something long and thin."

"Long and thin?" I mused, repeating him. "Right, I'll get looking."

* * *

This one had been a toughie. I couldn't seem to find what we were looking for anywhere in the flat. I had tried the wardrobe first, alerting the Prof to my idea, but then he said to me that the investigating officers beforehand had already searched the contents of the closet and sent the articles of clothing to forensics for any traces of blood. They didn't turn up anything.

I tried searching the kitchen again, looking behind the many cans of beer within the fridge and even checking the trashy contents of the swing bins. I found nowt that could have been used as the murder weapon the Prof had described. The longer it took me to find a long and thin weapon, the more anxious I became to succeed before the Prof began to get disappointed with me.

Quickly scanning the small bathroom, I spotted nothing outstanding to me. I sighed and bent down to peer into the trash bin. Nothing even remotely sharp, much less long and thin. But as I began to stand back up, something caught my eye. I picked it up.

**Scrap of card**

**A thick, creased scrap of card. It looks like it was intended for the bin, but fell out. It is slightly damp.**

Frowning, I handled it for a moment before folding it up onto a few of the original creases to make it smaller and placing it in my pocket. Something told me it was important, whether it was because it hadn't managed to make it into the trash bin or something else entirely.

* * *

After checking the balcony for anything that could possibly be the murder weapon, I eventually pointed out the clock resting in the corner of the flat by the front door.

**Clock**

**An antique-style grandfather clock with a large pendulum.**

"This clock's got me thinking, Prof," I said, glancing over my shoulder to look at him standing behind me.

"Hmm… You'd better have a closer look at it then, Lucy," the Prof remarked. "You might be on to something."

He allowed me to open the glass cover of the clock and I swung it open, careful not to pull too hard, and studied the contents of the clock closely without actually touching any of it.

**Clock hands**

**The metal hands of the clock. The long minute hand it slightly bent at the tip.**

**~ o ~**

**Pendulum**

**A highly polished and heavy-looking pendulum.**

Closing it again, I could hear the Prof say, "So, you've had a chance to examine the clock in detail now."

"Aye," I replied, turning around to face him.

"And what do you think?" he asked. "Is there any way it could have been used as the murder weapon at all?"

"I'm thinking the clock hands," I mused.

"Yes, the hand!" the Prof exclaimed, loud again.

I frowned slightly, thinking, _Today is being a rather strange day._ Nevertheless, I continued. "It's long and thin alright. And pretty sharp, too," I commented.

"If you look closely," the Prof added, "you'll notice it's also slightly bent."

"Aye, there's every chance this is what were used to do the fellow in!" I said eagerly.

"I agree," the Prof replied with a smile.

"Which means the murder weapon were in the room right from the start," I concluded.

"And having committed the crime, the perpetrator hid it on the premises," the Prof finished for me. "In other words, the culprit was in the flat before, during and after the crime. An excellent find, Lucy."

I grinned in pride at his compliment. "Ee, I'm that chuffed!"

"Ask forensics to go over the clock hand again, would you?" the Prof asked me. "If it was really the murder weapon, they should be able to find traces of Potsby's blood on it."

"Will do!" I assured him.

* * *

We both returned to the office, me placing the files I held onto the desk along with the Prof's other papers. I wouldn't need them for what we were about to do. My heart was already beginning to beat faster and I grew fidgety.

"That's everything. We've tied up all the loose ends, haven't we?" I asked the Prof.

"Yes," the Prof replied. "In theory, at least."

I blinked in surprise before frowning at him and crossing my arms. "How do you mean?"

"We haven't quite got enough to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Potsby-Mahn was responsible," the Prof explained.

"Why do you say that?"

There was a moment of silence before the Prof said, "Never mind. Why don't you call our suspect in and we'll take it from there? This time we'll get her to tell us the truth, whether she likes it or not."

What he had just said was still bothering me a bit, especially since it seemed that the Prof had just threatened Ms. Potsby-Mahn, but if he wasn't worried, I didn't think I should be. "Ee, I can't wait!" I exclaimed, feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach.

* * *

Bingo growled as we stood in the interrogation room, about to chew Ms. Potsby-Mahn out about her husband's murder. I took a nervous half-step back, thinking that he was possibly sensing what we were going to accuse his girlfriend of.

"Oh my – Keep your furry friend under control!" I said, holding my hands up instinctively.

"Well, I do declare!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed indignantly, crossing her arms. "Mah 'furry' friend' as you put it does have a name, Ms. Baker. Bingo. But I call him Bing."

"Well, I can't say I approve of the collar, but I hope that chain's a good'un!" I said anxiously.

"At the risk of repeating myself, Ms. Potsby-Mahn, would you mind, er…?" the Prof asked.

"Yes, yes," Ms. Potsby-Mahn replied dismissively, waving a hand. "I know. Bing, go wait for me in the car, boy. The trunk's open. I am sure the good Inspector will not be keeping me long."

I scowled slightly. _She sure seems very confident._

Once Bing had left, Ms. Potsby-Mahn continued speaking. "Now whatever affairs we still have to discuss, Inspector, I trust we can do so quickly?" she asked. "I always go to the park with Bing around this time of day."

"Don't worry, Ms. Potsby-Mahn," I assured her with a secret smirk. "I'm fairly sure this'll be the last time we meet."

"So what exactly requires mah attention now, may I ask? I assume you have finally concluded that it was that outlaw who murdered mah husband," she remarked.

"On the contrary," the Prof interrupted. "We are now quite certain Mr. Nicks is completely innocent in this matter. If you'll cast your mind back to our previous conversation, we established that the victim was…"

"The victim was stabbed from behind without warning. He was caught completely unawares," I chipped in. "Aye, Mr. Potsby had no idea what were coming. There's no way Nicks could have done that if he came in the way you described."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn scowled deeply. "As I have already told you more than once, Jack was inclined to fall asleep while watching the television."

"Of course, we cannot deny the possibility that your husband was indeed asleep at the time," the Prof commented. "However, if that were truly the case, it would be at odds with something else that happened. In other words…"

"Because the window were shattered!" I exclaimed, pointing a finger in emphasis. "All that glass breaking would've made a right din and no mistake. No one could've slept through that. There's no way Mr. Potsby wouldn't have woken up."

"I do declare, you are as slow as a snail sometimes, Ms. Baker!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said insultingly. "Mah husband was quite exhausted that day. Why, he was sleeping like a log. Even the clatter of the window breaking would surely not have roused him."

I clenched my fists but kept myself under control. "Well, there's nowt more to be said on that front then, I suppose," I commented with gritted teeth.

"Only when that outlaw drove his knife into mah poor husband's back, did he wake with a spine-chilling scream," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said. The description would have been sad, had it not been for the young woman's smirk on her face.

"And it was on hearing that scream that you ran out of the bathroom to see what was happening?" the Prof asked her.

"That is correct," Ms. Potsby-Mahn confirmed. "Mah sudden arrival scared the outlaw away before he could steal away even a bitty bit. I know it was that thief they caught in the grounds."

"I see," the Prof mused, before smiling at her. Some may have taken as a smile of friendliness, but I knew it was a smile of triumph. "So that's the course of events as you describe it."

"I have never said anything to the contrary," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said, scowling.

"So, if I may just recap?" he asked, proceeding before she could reply. "You were having a shower in the bathroom when you heard the sound of glass shattering. Immediately after that, you heard Mr. Potsby scream. That's what you're telling us happened, are you? It's also what you said in your statement."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked, brushing some of her hair back. "Of course it is. Because that is the truth, Inspector."

"Then I would have to say you are a liar, Ms. Potsby-Mahn," the Prof replied, his voice surprisingly calm for such an accusation.

"Well!" she exclaimed angrily. "A liar?"

"Indeed. And there is a certain piece of evidence on the scene that will prove me right," the Prof pointed out.

"Well, I am all ears," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said confidently. "If this evidence really exists, then I sure would like to see it."

"Those bits of broken glass prove that you're lying to us, Ms. Potsby-Mahn," I replied with a half-smirk.

"Oh, that is hogwash!" she said loudly. "All those l'il bitty bits of glass prove nothing of the sort!"

The Prof smiled that victory smile again. "Would you care to explain, Lucy?"

"You only have to look at the broken glass to see the order of events that led to Mr. Potsby's death," I pointed out.

"What order of events?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked snobbishly.

"You claim you heard the window smash first and then your husband scream," I clarified. "But if that were the case, what are all these bits of glass doing on top of the body, eh?" I emphasized the last few words to make my point.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn took a step back at these words in surprise. "Ah…"

"If your statement was true," the Prof added before she could get any words in, "the broken glass should be underneath the corpse."

"But they aren't, are they, Ms. Potsby-Mahn?" I said with my eyebrows raised. "They're on top. Which proves that the window were smashed after the victim were stabbed."

"So it would seem you have deliberately given a false statement," the Prof pointed out.

"I, I have done no such thing!" the woman exclaimed, stuttering a bit from nervousness before regaining her composure. "Why, I have simply confused matters in mah head. I am all torn up about the loos of mah dear husband. This simple misunderstanding proves nothing." Ms. Potsby-Mahn crossed her arms. "I retract mah statement. I simply cannot remember if I heard the scream or the glass breaking first. Perhaps the outlaw came inside some other way and only smashed the window after killing mah Jack."

"Oh, you little weasel!" I struggled not to say more out of frustration. But I should have known the Prof had something up his sleeve, ready for this reply.

"Let us assume for a moment that you were indeed mistaken," he said. "That introduces a new complication."

"It does?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked, looking a bit nervous.

"Indeed," the Prof confirmed, which surprised me. "Because we know that the door and the window were both locked before the incident occurred. If the culprit didn't break the window, how did he or she get into the flat?"

The woman huffed and crossed her arms. "Why, I have no idea! Just what are you trying to say, Inspector?"

"What I'm trying to say is simple." The Prof smiled. "We can now be sure that the true perpetrator of this crime is…"

"It were you, Ms. Goldie Potsby-Mahn!" I exclaimed, finishing the Prof's sentence.

"At the time of the attack, the window and door of the flat were locked," he said.

"The only other way in were by smashing the window. But we know that happened after the victim died," I pointed out.

"With no other method of entry available, the only conclusion is that the culprit did not come in from outside," the Prof finished. "No, the person who did this was in the flat from the outset. And the only person who fits that bill, Ms. Potsby-Mahn, is you."

"Am I to understand that you are accusing me of murder because I was in mah home the whole time?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked indignantly.

I smirked. "Aye, you are to understand that."

"Then I must remind you of something of vital importance that you appear to have overlooked," she replied with a scowl.

"Oh?" I asked, doubtful. "What's that?"

"Just a l'il bitty thing called a murder weapon!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn accused. "I hear it told that you have still not found it anywhere inside the apartment. Which I never left. If I am to be accused of this crime, why, I would just love to know where I'm supposed to have put it."

"Indeed, I confess to having been stumped by that conundrum," the Prof admitted.

"Well, there you have it," Ms. Potsby-Mahn said confidently. "You have not a shred of evidence that I killed mah husband."

"However, we did eventually manage to locate the murder weapon," the Prof added.

Ms. Potsby-Mahn's sudden confusion and nervousness rang an alarm bell in my head. There was something up here, but I was too excited to pay much attention to it. "Huh?" she asked defensively. "I, I beg your pardon?"

I laughed. "Aye, that's right. We know exactly what you used to skewer your man!"

"I, I do declare…" she muttered aloud. "Why, that's simply not possible…"

"You didn't dispose of the murder weapon outside of the flat," the Prof explained. "No, it's been in there the entire time."

"You're starting to rile me, Inspector!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed, crossing her arms. "Tell me where this murder weapon I am supposed to have used is."

"The murder weapon were hidden int' clock!" I answered for him.

"Wha – Are you quite sure?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked, seeming amused for some reason.

"Sure as eggs are eggs, aye!" I said, frustrated by her response. "It were the minute hand of the clock that were used to kill Mr. Potsby."

"Why, that is hogwash! A man could never be killed with such a thing," Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked.

"Well, the shape of the hand matches the victim's wound perfectly," the Prof pointed out.

"Aye, you haven't got long to wriggle your way out of this one," I agreed. "Forensics are going over it with a fine toothcomb as we speak."

The phone from the office then began to ring, audible even from the interrogation room.

"Speak of the devil…" the Prof said.

I exited the room to answer the phone. "Hello?"

* * *

Ms. Potsby-Mahn smirked in amusement at the Prof. "The shape of it…? Well, it is almost…"

The Prof frowned. "You admit it now?" he asked.

"I don't think so, do you, Inspector?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn commented.

* * *

I hurried back into the interrogation room after receiving the information from forensics, extremely confused and worried. "Prof, Prof!" I exclaimed.

"What's the matter?" he asked me, frowning.

"The results! From forensics," I said quickly, out of breath. "They found nowt on it! No traces of blood whatsoever!"

The Prof blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Mah, what a terrible shame," Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked. "Your trump card turned out to be a joker in the end. I do declare, I hate it when that happens."

"No," the Prof muttered, clearly disturbed. "I must have missed something…"

"Prof?" I asked, worried.

"Can I assume we are finally on the same page now, Inspector?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn asked, smirking. "That outlaw, Nicks, is responsible for mah husband's death, and I am no longer under suspicion? If you could just fill out these forms for me with words to that effect…" She held out a couple of papers towards us.

I frowned, peering at the contents of the pages. "Forms?"

"Well, mah husband's life insurance simply will not pay out without the proper paperwork, Ms. Baker," Ms. Potsby-Mahn explained.

I scowled at her. "Have you got no shame at all? We're talking about a man's life!"

"Why, you have no idea what you are talking about, missy!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed. "Jack doted on me. He would turn in his grave if he thought his l'il pot of gold would not be mahn after his death."

"How do you have the gall to say summat like that?" I asked, clenching my fists.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. I had no idea what had happened, but I felt a fearful chill run through me.

"Killing for cash. Hm, not a bad idea," the Prof mused. Except the Prof wasn't the Prof. At least, not the way I knew him.

He seemed… darker somehow. His hair fell in thick red locks across his face, hiding his eyes. And his grin wasn't the triumphant one I was used to. It was more sadistic, more like he was taking pleasure from the nervous squirming of his victims instead of from getting them to admit to their crime. It terrified me.

I took a couple of steps back, eyes wide in fright. "Eh? Prof?" I asked nervously. "Are you alright?"

This 'evil' Prof just ignored me and instead kept talking to Ms. Potsby-Mahn. "But your motives are far, far darker than that. Aren't they, Goldie?" he drawled.

"Don't get uppity with me now, Inspector!" she replied angrily.

"Oh, but you enjoy it, don't you?" the Prof continued. "You kill for money, but it's not the cash you're after. It's the kick. Isn't it?"

The Prof's words were really scaring me now. He didn't sound like himself. He sounded much like the very criminals he made a living out of catching. "What are you on about, Prof?" I asked, catching myself from stuttering. I tried to speak strongly, like I wasn't afraid. "What's got into you?"

Again, he ignored me. "I can just imagine it… That little smile creeping onto your lips as you prepared the murder weapon."

"I will not fall into your petty trap, Inspector!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed, looking much more uneasy now at the sudden attitude change of the Prof. "Need I remind you that you still have not even found this murder weapon of which you speak?"

"And we never will. Because it no longer exists."

This startled me, enough to temporarily knock me out of my fear-induced stupor. _No longer exists?_ I mouthed, unable to get the words out.

"Inspector, I do declare you have lost your mind," Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked, crossing her arms. "Are you suggesting the murder weapon just vanished into thin air?"

"You'd be delighted if that's what we concluded, wouldn't you?" the Prof asked, grinning devilishly. "But let me put it another way. The weapon that was used to stab Jack Potsby didn't exactly vanish. It melted."

"Eh?" I finally forced out. "What, in a furnace or summat?" Then it clicked in my head and I almost forgot all about my fear. "Oh, hang on. I think I get it now. I know what happened! The murder weapon must have been melted in that cooking pot!"

"Oh, yes," the Prof drawled. "The weapon that killed Potsby disappeared in that very pot."

"I, I have no idea what you are talking about," Ms. Potsby-Mahn stuttered. "I assure you I was simply making mah husband and I some pasta."

"Don't mock me!" the Prof suddenly yelled, jerking his hand through the air as if he wanted to knock something over. "Where's the cutlery? Where are the bowls? The pasta sauce? There's no sign of any preparation of a meal at all. Just the pasta in this pot of boiling water."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn truly appeared nervous for the first time since I had met her. "I, I had intended to prepare those things later, but…"

"I don't think so!" I interrupted. "I don't think that pasta were ever meant for eating at all."

"No, the pasta was prepared for the sole purpose of the disappearing act," the Prof spat. "Tell me by now you've figured out what the murder weapon was, Lucy."

"Oh, aye, I'm with you now, Prof. The weapon used to stab Jack Potsby to death were a knife made of ice!" I exclaimed. "It would've melted to nowt in no time at all in a pot of boiling water like that one with the pasta in."

"Why, anyone with an ounce of horse sense can see this is just a fiction you have concocted," Ms. Potsby-Mahn retorted. "Even if there was a knife made of ice like you say…" She smirked in triumph. "… it's gone now, has it not? Mah hands are clean. You can never prove I had such a weapon in mah possession."

I frowned in disappointment at her statement. "Well, no, perhaps not, but, er…"

The Prof suddenly groaned, bending over like he was going to throw up.

"Prof?" I asked worriedly.

"Yes… we can…" he finally said, straightening up as best he could. He held his forehead like he had a headache, his hair hiding the rest of his face.

"Pardon me, Inspector?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn questioned with a scowl, arms crossed.

"Are you back to normal now, Prof?" I asked quietly.

The Prof eventually brushed his hair back from his face, looking pallid and sickly. "Sorry, Lucy. Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you," he said just as softly, though I feared it was from weakness instead of an attempt to be quiet.

"What are you two whispering about over there?" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said angrily.

"We're discussing the ice knife," the Prof replied, his voice stronger now. "You are of course correct that the knife itself is no more. However, in order to make the knife in the first place, there was a mold. And that mold is still on the scene."

"I surely would like to see it!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn remarked, looking doubtful but very nervous.

"Lucy, do you know what was used?" the Prof asked me.

I, of course, had gotten it a long time ago, as soon as the Prof had mentioned a mold. In fact, I was certain that the mold he was talking about was in my pocket right now. I pulled out the scrap of card, waving it around triumphantly.

"It were this damp piece of card that were used to mold the shape of the knife!" I exclaimed. "Aye, if you fold it back up along the creases, let's see what you get…" I did so, smirking at what the resulting shape was. "Oh, look! A perfect knife-shape."

"Yes," the Prof commented, "you lined the mold with cling film or the like, then filled it and put it in the freezer to make your knife. We'll be able to match the shape of the mold to that of the victim's wound to be certain, of course."

"Why, it's nothing more than a coincidence!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said quickly. "Anyone can see that."

"We have more evidence against you," the Prof pointed out. "After you stabbed your husband, you used a towel to wipe the blood off the knife."

"The towel we found ont' balcony!" I added, imagining the scene.

The Prof nodded in agreement. "And once you were satisfied you'd removed all the blood, you put the icy weapon in the boiling water. But are you absolutely sure you removed every last trace?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm sure I do not follow!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn exclaimed, attempting to look defiant.

"In my experience, no one ever manages to remove all the traces of blood from a weapon," the Prof explained. "If you indeed dissolved the knife that killed your husband in boiling water, we will be able to positively identify the victim's blood when we examine the pot."

"Why, you little…" Ms. Potsby-Mahn muttered under her breath.

"Lucy, have forensics go over the pot for us, will you?" the Prof asked.

"Straight away, Prof," I said eagerly.

* * *

I came back not too long after, smiling in success. "I spoke with forensics. They're on the case already."

"Now we merely need to wait for the results," the Prof commented. "Are you ready to admit to your crime now, Ms. Potsby-Mahn?"

"I have no intention of admitting to anything, Inspector!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn spat. "Even if you can prove that mah husband was killed with a knife made of ice, it does not mean that I did it."

"Oh, know when you've had it, lass!" I retorted in frustration.

"I have 'had' nothing, Ms. Baker," she replied with her arms crossed. "Other than mah innocence questioned most unjustly."

The Prof frowned at her. "Unfortunately for you, there is no logical way in which you are not guilty. If you will cast your mind back. We showed there was no way into the flat when the incident took place. The door and windows were locked. In other words, only someone who was already inside could have stabbed Mr. Potsby."

"Oh, please!" Ms. Potsby-Mahn said, scowling.

"You admitted yourself that you did not leave the flat," the Prof pointed out. "In your own words, 'the apartment which I never left'."

"No. I… I…" She slumped in defeat, and I smirked to myself.

"Or is that another statement you would now like to retract?" the Prof asked. "I must warn you that doing so is only likely to make things worse for you in the end, though."

Ms. Potsby-Mahn scowled at him, clenching her hands into fists. "I demand to see mah attorney! You cannot continue to question me in this way!"

"Certainly," the Prof said calmly. "Lucy, make the necessary arrangements, please."

"Will do, Prof," I said cheerfully.

"Why, to be accused of such a petty l'il thing…" Ms. Potsby-Mahn murmured, a depressed look on her face.

* * *

We returned to the main office after one of the officers on duty had taken Ms. Potsby-Mahn away.

"She put up quite a fight, eh?" I commented.

"Yes, she did," the Prof replied.

"I were in a right tizz when the lab said they'd found nowt on that clock hand, I can tell you that," I continued.

The Prof chuckled. "Don't worry, Lucy. You weren't alone. It's a bit of a gamble as to whether they'll find any traces of blood in the pot of pasta as well."

I blinked, frowning. "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I'm pretty sure she's going to confess now, though," the Prof added.

I sighed, exasperated at the Prof's reply. "Pretty sure, eh?"

Ms. Sich suddenly entered the room, pulling her IV along as she rolled in on her stool. The door swung shut behind her with a quiet thump. "Alfendi!" she called out. "She's –" She sneezed. "– admitted everything."

"Ee, what a relief!" I exclaimed, letting out a reassured breath.

"It seems she was after the man's life insurance," Ms. Sich continued.

"She told us as much when we were questioning her, would you believe?" the Prof said, shaking his head at his statement.

"Oh," Ms. Sich replied, frowning. "Well, did you know this? We've found out that Potsby won a, a, a – achoo! – very large sum of money last year. That's when Ms. Mahn came into his life. Hardly what you might call a coincidence."

"She were a real gold-digger, eh?" I remarked.

Ms. Sich huffed in amusement before sniffing. "Well, it seems Potsby was spending money like water. She was terrified he'd rack up as much debt as the insurance payout, so she had to murder him quickly."

"I see," the Prof mused. "So it was something of a rush job. She no doubt prepared better for her other spouses."

"So it's all done and dusted then?" I said cheerfully. "Fabulous!"

"I must say, Al," Ms. Sich commented, "you don't look very well. Are you alright?"

I glanced at the Prof. He was still a bit pale, and his hair hung down limply from sweating earlier. I frowned. "Probably that Jekyll-and-Hyde moment you had's taken it out of you, eh, Prof?"

"That's a bit of an exaggerated way of describing it, Lucy," the Prof said, rubbing his forehead like he still had a headache. "But I do feel a little under the weather. I think I'll go home early if no one objects?"

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" I asked, worried.

"It's nothing a bit of sleep won't cure, I'm sure," the Prof assured me. "Can you close up the office when you leave?"

I smiled at him. That moment when that side of the Prof had appeared – I had already dubbed that side 'Potty Prof" – had scared me. But he seemed perfectly alright now, if not pale, and his words helped. "Consider it done."

Once the Prof had left the office, I muttered, "Ee, I hope he's alright…"

"So it happened again, did it?"

I blinked and looked towards Ms. Sich. "Hey, do you know then, Florence? About the Prof?" I asked, clenching my fists. "Whatever's it all about, eh?"

"Calm down, Lucy," she said. "I really don't know all that much about it. But you're safe as long as there's a criminal present."

I frowned, crossing my arms. "You don't hear that said every day!"

"What I mean is, the 'other' Al is only interested in criminals," Ms. Sich explained before sneezing again. "You won't come to any harm."

"So he's got some kind of vendetta against all criminals or summat?" I asked, curious.

"Actually, from what I've seen of him, I'd say it's quite the opposite," she replied. "He can't help liking them. All the more so, the more atrocious they are."

"Ee, I don't like the sound of that," I commented.

"There's really no cause for alarm," Ms. Sich assured me. "Like I said, as long as there's a criminal present, you're perfectly safe."

I looked at her fearfully. "What happens if he shows up when it's just the two of us, though?"

"If it were me, I'd rip out my drip and run like the wind," Ms. Sich suggested honestly.

I grimaced at the thought of Potty Prof advancing on me, looking as murderous as he did only a bit ago. "I, I think I'll come in my plimsolls tomorrow."


End file.
